


"Merry Christmas" I wrapped it up and sent it with a note saying "I love you"

by starrysummernights



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Advent Calendar, Angst, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Smut, First Christmas, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Literally so much angst, M/M, Mary is Not Nice, Mary is not redeemed, No Eurus Holmes, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Parentlock, Past Mary Morstan/John Watson, Past Torture, Post-Season/Series 04, Rape Recovery, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-02-09 09:41:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 135,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12885174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starrysummernights/pseuds/starrysummernights
Summary: This is my Christmas 2017 Johnlock advent. It takes place after series 4 but with no murder sister Eurus Holmes or murder island. Assume the story picks up after the events of The Dying Detective."John has moved back into 221B with his daughter Rosie after Mary was killed, but things are not exactly comfortable between him and Sherlock. After everything that has happened, they are trying to become friends again...and maybe something more. What better time than the Christmas season?!**Updates daily**





	1. Day 1: Jumpers

**Author's Note:**

> This is my Christmas-y Johnlock fix-it fic. It is AU since Eurus does not exist nor any of the events that happened in The Final Problem. Mary will not be redeemed in this fic either, so if you're a Mary sympathizer, you may want to close the window now.
> 
> Otherwise, enjoy the angst-ridden, fluffy smutfest I have prepared for you all :)
> 
> And Merry Christmas!

The first day of December descended on London with a brisk wind, an overcast grey sky, and a steady snow which had started sometime overnight, in the in-between time when November froze into December, and continued the entire day. The people of London hurried about their business, bundled up and with shoulders hunched, struggling through the steadily accumulating inches of snow, which promised to become A Problem by nightfall. They all wanted to finish what they needed to do and then get back home where they could be snug and comfortable and warm. Out of wet clothes and into thick dry socks and in front of a fire.

Sherlock Holmes knew how the people walking beneath his window felt, intimately, because earlier in the day he had been a part of the throng, shivering his way through London in his Belstaff and scarf, which one would have thought would keep him warm. Two hours running about London, standing in the snow, would freeze anyone to the core, though. But, he had done what he needed- proven Mrs. Melissa Armstrong was not cheating on Mrs. Diana Armstrong, that there was no need for a divorce, and instead the two women could spend a happy Christmas together, hopefully while attending couple’s therapy sessions to work on their obvious communication problems. Sherlock was still cold, but the couple were reconciled and happy, and that was all that mattered.

Now, wrapped in his dressing gown with dry trousers and the aforementioned warm, dry socks- a ghastly past Christmas present from Mrs. Hudson- with the requisite fire, Sherlock leaned against the window and absently watched the street below, deep in thought.

It was December 1st. Christmas was in 24 days.

Sherlock didn’t need to glance behind him at the flat to know there wasn’t any sign of the upcoming holiday. It looked the same as it had done for the past three months: furniture and wallpaper and décor never-changing, an over piled tabletop with his laptop and papers, and each table beside the two chairs were stacked with books and notebooks and half-empty cups of tea. Bills which still needed to be paid were stacked on the mantle and there was only one photograph pinned to his crime wall. The only new additions to the flat were Rosie’s things.

Brightly colored baby toys were scattered over the floor. A playpen was scooted against the wall beside the sofa. A white baby gate stood sentinel at the top of the stairs, and at the mouth of the up stairs. Plastic locks were on every cabinet and drawer that was in “baby reach.” Sherlock had spent an entire day crawling around on the floor, dragging himself along at what he estimated was Rosie’s toddling height, and making note of everything hazardous. Little plastic plugs were in every electric socket, there were annoying plastic contraptions on every door handle, and there was a fiddly lock on the fridge which kept all of Sherlock’s experiments away from little hands.

John had thought it was all too much work when Sherlock suggested it, before John agreed to move back in. Sherlock wouldn’t want to go to the trouble of baby-proofing 221B, John had said. Sherlock wouldn’t know how to go about it. It was a lot of work. John had better just stay out in the suburbs with Rosie- even though Sherlock knew John hated it there: in the house he’d shared with his wife, and now shared alone with his daughter. It was too far from London. Too far from his job.

He was too far away from Sherlock.

But it hadn’t been a chore, Sherlock thought, resting his forehead against the cold glass of the window. His breath fogged the pane instantly, obscuring his view of the road. He hadn’t minded.

If it took baby-proofing the flat for John to move back in, Sherlock would do it. Had done it. He’d done more than that already.

He had apologized, over and over, for his egregious behavior in the last year.

And everything before that.

He’d taken a drugs test to prove to John that he was clean. Submitted to Mycroft’s people pawing through his things to check for a secret stash. Assured John he was clean and sober and known every time he said it that John still didn’t believe him. He had included John on cases but only when it didn’t interfere with his work schedule or Rosie’s care. Sherlock had been on his best behavior, distant and cool, courteous and quiet.

And it had worked. John had moved back in. It was the most exquisite torture to be so close to John again. To know his routines, well-worn and familiar, see his face across the breakfast table, smell his aftershave, hear his mutterings as he puttered around, the steady, frustrating pecking of his fingers on the keys of his laptop, the sounds he made as he got ready each morning for work, the way he relaxed each evening, the high-pitched, silly voice he sometimes talking to Rosie in. Only now, everything was different. There was a tension in the flat which had never been there before. Too much had happened between them too quickly. Sherlock’s betrayal of John, his lies, John’s marriage, Mary shooting Sherlock, Mary’s betrayal of John, Mary’s death, John’s blaming of Sherlock for that, Sherlock’s drug addiction, John’s anger issues, John’s general distrust of Sherlock. The list was extensive.

But at least John was here, with Sherlock again. He’d sold his house in the suburbs and moved himself back in.

That was progress.

Not in the way Sherlock wanted- and he closed his eyes at the sudden rush of desperate longing that line of thought always elicited: what _could have been_ , once upon a time. It was pointless and could never happen. He needed to stop deluding himself. John was here with him. That was enough. It had to be.

Sherlock took a shaky little breath and moved away from the window. It was more than he deserved, having John living with him again. After…after what had happened with Mary, and everything they had been through, it was a mercy Sherlock didn’t deserve. He’d do his best to be worthy of it, though. To be worthy of John Watson again.

Which brought him to his current dilemma: It was December. Christmas was in 24 days.

Research showed that children began developing the cognitive ability to form lasting memories at an early age, 2-3 years. It was therefore recommended to expose a child to a variety of experiences and situations, textures and sounds and smells, as early as possible during this critical stage. It was important for Rosie to have the best, happiest memories it was possible to give her so she would be a well-rounded, well-adjusted child.

Memories were important. Some days, it felt like they were all Sherlock had.

What happy memories did Rosie Watson have? Nothing about her mother, because Mary had died before Rosie could probably form distinct memories of her. (Because Sherlock had messed up, had failed. Pointless sentiment. Moving on.) Would she remember John leaving her at friends’ houses for days on end after Mary died, an absent father, a reluctant parent?

Surely she had a few happy memories. Playing with Sherlock. Eating biscuits with Mrs. Hudson. Riding in Lestrade’s patrol car with sirens blaring while they chased a criminal across London and her father shouted.

It was a pitiful amount. Rosie needed more. She deserved more.

Christmas was in 24 days. John wouldn’t want a fancy Christmas. It was his first Christmas since Mary died and he probably wanted something quiet. Small. A solemn ode to her memory. That didn’t mean Sherlock couldn’t decorate the flat for Rosie, though.

In trifling ways.

He turned slowly on the spot, evaluating what could be placed and where without being flashy. As he turned, superimposed over the flat and every object he saw were memories of past Christmases with John- happy music and laughter- drinks and a roaring fire- stockings hung on the mantel and silly gifts- Christmas specials on the telly and a Santa hat on the skull- everyone piling into the flat and talking and laughing and being annoying- and, above all, a bone deep sense of contentment and peace.

Sherlock stopped, the memories too painful, physically taking his breath away with the want of it.

He focused on the task at hand. Rosie. Happy memories. Right.

He could hang fairy lights around the mirror. A few strands around the windows. The doorway to the kitchen. Spiraled up the bannister of the stairs. Santa hats on the skull and buffalo.

Should he put up a tree? Sherlock debated, but decided against it. Too ostentatious. If John wanted something quiet, there should be no tree. He wanted John to feel at home again, not be reminded of painful things. After all, as Sherlock had just said, memories were important. Mary had always done an elaborate tree, one worthy of being in a shop window or on the cover of a magazine. John was used to that and for Sherlock to put up their old fake one with the sparkly but cheap ornaments would be…well. It just wasn’t to be done.

Decision made, Sherlock raced downstairs to ask Mrs. Hudson where the boxes of Christmas things were. He only had an hour before John and Rosie came back from the shops and he wanted to have his decorating done. He wanted to surprise Rosie.

Surprise memories were always the best kind.

* * *

 

Rosie squealed and clapped her hands when she saw the lights sparkling all over the flat. She strained towards Sherlock, leaning out of John’s arms as John himself stared, dumbstruck by what Sherlock had done. He didn’t say anything, just stared around the flat, taking in the ropes of lights and wreaths Mrs. Hudson, overjoyed that Sherlock was ‘getting in the Christmas spirit,’ had insisted on bringing up. He didn’t say anything, just… _stared_.

Suddenly, Sherlock didn’t know if this had been a good idea. He fidgeted, 5 different explanations- experiment, to please Mrs. Hudson, to make the flat more welcoming for clients, why shouldn’t he decorate the flat since he’d always done, Mrs. Hudson had done most of the decorating- springing to mind, but none of them would come out. He waited, wondering what John would say. It was always so hard for him to read John these days.

The thought depressed him.

John used to wear his emotions like an open book, there for all the world to see, if they were only perceptive enough to understand. Sherlock had been able to read John like the pages of a well-loved book, one he always wanted to go back to whenever he could. That was gone now. Sherlock supposed he’d been put through too much.

“You did all this while we were gone?” There was something distinctly odd in John’s voice. It wasn’t happiness, but it wasn’t anger either. John was working on his “anger issues” and Mycroft had been very clear about what he expected from John and his progress if he were living with Sherlock again. And John was better. They both were. Sherlock wasn’t worried about John getting mad or losing control or anything trite like that. He was worried about John being depressed- which John was prone to these days- because of something Sherlock had done. He had already put John through so much, he didn’t want to add anything to it. Sherlock’s insides writhed.

“Wasn’t that much.” He said shortly and, hoping for distraction, plucked Rosie out of John’s arms and whirled her around to look at the lights- and himself away from John. She squealed again, grabbing at them, but Sherlock took her hand, guiding it gently to the twinkling lights. She cooed, stroking a small light between her fingers, and grinned. Sherlock took them on a tour around the room, aware that John was still watching them, letting Rosie poke at the Santa hat, patting the skull tenderly as she did, inspect the fragrant wreaths, and then to the window where he’d put up the colored lights.

Rosie was amazed. She stared as the lights glittered and twinkled, brilliant against the darkening sky outside where snow was still falling. Sherlock heard John putting things away in the kitchen and relaxed, kissing Rosie’s head. If John were really upset about the decorations, he would have said something then and there.

Rosie twisted in Sherlock’s arms, flinging one of her own around his neck, and babbled something which Sherlock knew meant she appreciated the lights and was thanking him for putting them up.

“I’m glad you like them.” Sherlock said quietly, staring past the lights to where the two of them were reflected in the dark glass, the night providing the perfect surface for projection. He could see himself and Rosie and in the background was John, moving around the kitchen with practiced ease. It was a pretty domestic scene, highlighted by the cheerful Christmas lights and for a brief second, Sherlock let himself imagine the reflection was reality. That he and John had made up, put the past behind them. John had forgiven him. There were no more shadows. They had started over. They were together, and Rosie was their daughter, and there was no specter between them of a past love. Instead, they were in love with each other and after John put the shopping away, the three of them would settle on the sofa and watch telly. Then, they would put Rosie to bed and John wouldn’t sleep upstairs but instead Sherlock would hear his footsteps on the stairs, coming to the bedroom they shared and-

“Listen. Sherlock.” John started uncomfortably, coming from the kitchen and Sherlock winced as the dream burst into insubstantial fragments. “Listen, uh. Thanks. For all this.”

Sherlock squeezed Rosie and put her down. She crawled over to her toys and started playing, looking around at the lights with a smile every few seconds.

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“I guess not but… I didn’t know if you’d want to celebrate this year. After…” John shrugged and Sherlock was left to fill in everything ‘after’ could imply. It was another long list. Sherlock didn’t know what to say. John clearly didn’t either. He and Sherlock watched Rosie play, each of them probably thinking of what ‘after’ meant. Sherlock wondered if they were thinking of the same thing.

Sherlock didn’t want to know.

“I wanted Rosie to have a nice Christmas.” He finally said. “This is your and Rosie’s home now and I wanted her to have…good memories here. Christmas seemed the most opportune time to create them. Tis the season and all that.” He said lightly and John chuckled, but it sounded forced. He stopped, grimacing.

While John ambled to the mantle, Sherlock took a quick inventory of the room and all his decorations. Maybe the lights had been a bad idea. They were too bright and…cheerful. Mocking.

John fiddled with the Santa hat perched dashingly on the skull, adjusting the fur trim carefully. “I guess it’s just been a while since I cared much for Christmas.”

“I didn’t think.” Sherlock regretted ever thinking this was in any way a good idea. John didn’t want stupid lights strung around the flat when his wife had died only months ago. “I can take it all down- just give me five minutes-“

“ _No_! That’s not what I…no.” John hurried forward before Sherlock could snatch the lights down, his hand outstretched. “I didn’t mean I always hated Christmas. Or that…I meant that I did, yes, but when I was here…our Christmases were always…I think Rosie will have lots of happy memories here. That’s all.”

Sherlock didn’t know what to say. He’d never before thought that John had enjoyed Christmases with him. The two they’d spent together had been fraught with crime and then The Woman and Moriarty- oh. Of course. John didn’t mean he’d enjoyed Christmas with _Sherlock_. He meant he’d enjoyed spending Christmas at the flat, all the friends they’d had over and the food they’d eaten and Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock’s violin playing. The crime-solving probably factored in there somewhere as well. Adrenaline added excitement to the season.

Sherlock had always been the one ruining the cheery atmosphere. The shadow they were obligated to invite to the feast but only because he lived there. He wouldn’t be that for Rosie, Sherlock decided. He would be happy for her.

Rosie suddenly tossed her toy across the room, the plastic clattering noisily on the wooden floor. John jumped and swore under his breath. Sherlock had expected that reaction.

“She never plays with that doll more than two minutes. It’s too cartoonish for her to enjoy.” He picked it up, tossing it in the general direction of Rosie’s toy box. “She likes the blocks better.”

“Okay, first off, she’s a baby.” John took up the same refrain Sherlock had heard for the last six months. He rolled his eyes and ignored him. “She doesn’t know anything about anatomy. Second, I bought that doll for her because she wanted it and wouldn’t stop crying until I got it. Everyone at the shop thought I was a child abuser. And third. Stop throwing her toys. You know she does everything you do.”

Sherlock glanced down at Rosie who was currently jamming her fist in her mouth. "No, she doesn’t.”

“Yes, she does.”

“No, she doesn’t.”

“Yes, she does.” John insisted and Rosie took that moment to throw herself backward on the floor, stretching on the carpet and huffing loudly, banging her fists and making as much noise as possible because she was being ignored.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Sherlock quickly picked Rosie up from the floor, nuzzling her soft blonde hair, and giving her all the attention she needed. He handed her a soft block which she immediately gnawed. John smiled, his eyes bright, and Sherlock’s chest ached.

“Do you still have the Rudolph jumper?”

Sherlock extricated the block from Rosie’s mouth and feigned ignorance. It usually worked on John. “The what?”

“Come on. The Rudolph jumper.”

John had grown more keen to Sherlock’s tricks in his dotage. Unfortunately.

“The one Lestrade bought you.”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“Do you still have it?”

Sherlock ignored him.

“You said you wanted Rosie to have good memories- that’s the best one I can think of. The Rudolph jumper.”

“I really don’t know-“ Sherlock began stiffly, but John cut him off.

“It was always mine. I’ll never forget your face.” John said and such a small confession- a throwaway statement really, because Sherlock knew John was only joking, he didn’t actually mean it- shouldn’t matter so much, but it did.

“She loves the lights, Sherlock. How much more do you think Rosie’d love that jumper?”

* * *

 

Half an hour later, after much cajoling and persuading and John taking the part of Rosie and begging Sherlock to make her happy, Sherlock was sat on the sofa, his lap full of Rosie, while she stroked, enthralled, at his lurid green jumper, complete with a cartoonishishly done picture of Rudolph whose nose, square in the middle of Sherlock’s chest, lit up red when you pressed it. Rosie was happy with the jumper, though, Sherlock admitted grudgingly.

And he wasn’t even that angry when John took photographs of them with his phone.


	2. Day 2- Snowballs

The snow had kept falling overnight, and the next morning dawned cold and white and bright. The snow sparkled, clean and fresh. Snow in London was pretty when it first fell, but after a day or two it turned dirty and slushy and no one wanted to look at it. But for now, it was still in the pretty stage and so after breakfast, Sherlock bundled Rosie up in her purple and gold princess parka, wrapped her in a matching princess scarf, and pushed the tiny matching princess boots Mrs. Hudson had bought her onto her feet over thick, sadly unroyal woolen socks. Princess gloves and a princess hat completed her ensemble and while John showered, Sherlock and Rosie walked hand-in-hand down the stairs and out Mrs. Hudson’s back door into the little snow-covered yard.

“Don’t stay out too long, Sherlock.” Mrs. Hudson called as they trooped through her living room. “The wind might hurt Rosie’s ears.”

“I won’t.”

“Isn’t John going with you?” She asked, but Sherlock pretended he hadn’t heard, closing the door behind him.

The snow was a few inches deep and covered the tops of Rosie’s boots. She screamed, excited, and hopped away from Sherlock before realizing she could drag her feet and bulldoze her way through the snow much easier. Sherlock watched her happily chug around the yard, leaving tiny furrows behind her.

He knelt and made a snowball, rolling the snow together and packing it tightly, before calling Rosie over and handing it to her. She took it carefully, looking at it from all angles, before crushing it between her gloves. Sherlock made another, and Rosie repeated the process of destroying his creation, cackling.

They played with the snowballs for a while, Sherlock proud of Rosie’s efficiency at destruction, before she eventually got bored and chugged off again. Sherlock stood, brushing the snow from his pants- and sudden movement caught the corner of his eye. He frowned up at the window where he thought he’d seen the movement, but there were just the curtains of his bedroom window, drawn and still. He dismissed it. The snow was reflecting on the glass. Probably a trick of the light.

Rosie was bent over on the far side of the yard, patting at the snow with her gloves, but when she saw Sherlock coming, she screamed and ran. Her limbs were awkward, chunky from the padding of the snowsuit, and it would have been easy to catch her, but Sherlock made a show of trying to rush after her and then _just_ missing her. Rosie screamed in delight each time she managed to outrun Sherlock. It was a small yard and finally Sherlock snatched her up, whirling her through the air. Her belly laughs were infectious and Sherlock laughed with her, happy. It was so fun to make Rosie happy. Rosie loved to whirl and no one did it better than Sherlock whose long arms and legs were perfect for height and length.

“A- _gin_!” She cried and Sherlock, who never denied Rosie anything, grabbed her up and spun them around, the blinding white of the snow flashing in their eyes, the brown of the wooden fence, and then the dark stone of the house.

White, brown, dark, white, brown, dark, white, brown, dark, white, brown - _John_.

Sherlock skidded to a stop mid-whirl. He lowered Rosie to the ground. Her feet hit the snow and Rosie protested until she saw John. He was stood just outside the back door, bundled in his jacket and scarf, hands covered with gloves, and had clearly been watching them for some time. Sherlock and Rosie had been laughing too loudly to hear the door open or close. Sherlock could tell, even from across the yard, that the expression on John’s face was off, something wasn’t right. He was frowning slightly and his smile was strained.

“Da!” Rosie ran over to John who picked her up- and just as quickly put her down when she screamed in outrage, thinking she was being taken inside. She trotted a little ways from John, not trusting his intentions to let her stay outside, before bending and scooped up a fistful of snow. She made a show of patting it like she’d seen Sherlock do and then handed the misshapen lump to John proudly.

“We’ve been making snowballs.” Sherlock shoved his hands in the pockets of his coat and John smiled at him, but it still looked odd. It was confusing. John didn’t normally look like that. Sherlock didn’t know what to make of it.

Except…maybe…

He didn’t want John to think he was trying to take Mary’s place, that he was trying to parent Rosie. The idea was absurd. Sherlock would never be able to replace Mary, even if he tried. John had loved her, married her, had a child with her. None of which he’d ever have wanted to do with Sherlock. Sherlock had been convenient. John had wanted Mary. He had chosen her.

Mary had loved and cared for Rosie and loved John. It had been a selfish love, self-serving and jealous, a type of love Sherlock couldn’t excuse. But she had still loved John, in her own way. She had made mistakes. Large, glaring, bullet shaped mistakes- but god knew Sherlock wasn’t a saint. He’d hurt John too. None of them were perfect. He didn’t want John to think he was overstepping his bounds, though. John was a good parent- now- and someday he’d find someone else to marry and Rosie would have a mother again and Sherlock…would stay Sherlock. A friend of Rosie’s father who was weird and rude and who had taken her father off on mad adventures at one point in his life. She may even read about it on John’s blog.

Sherlock had no place in their lives.

“I see that. Well done, Rosie.” John said and Rosie wriggled in happiness. She scooped up more snow and proudly gave it to John again, and again, impatiently waiting for her required praise each time.

There was just enough snow to make a (small) snowman and Sherlock and John tried to show Rosie how to roll the snow. John started a small ball and then gave it to Rosie. She was intent, frowning in concentration, but the snow kept falling apart and finally she flung it down in frustration. She chugged away again. Sherlock turned to watch her-

Snow hit Sherlock’s shoulder and exploded in a shower of icy wetness. It slipped beneath the collar of his coat and sprinkled his hair. It was so unexpected he gasped, and he spun to see John a few feet away, looking innocent, head cocked to one side. It wasn’t enough to fool Sherlock. John’s hands were hidden behind his back. He held himself stiff and at the ready. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and John grinned.

He calculated several different options, various battle tactics he could use against John which used his own superior height as an advantage- this was not their first snowball war- but while he was choosing which- John lobbed another snowball, catching Sherlock directly in the chest. Galvanized, Sherlock dived to the side and scooped up as much snow as he could. He could hear John doing the same, his gloves scraping through the snow, and his adrenaline spiked. His first snowball was rushed and sailed over John’s head, but his next found its mark. John accidentally dropped the snowball he’d just made and cursed, shaking snow from his face.

Their war raged thick and fast. Snowballs flew through the air. The yard was small and there was nothing to hide behind except Mrs. Hudson’s bins and those, as they had learned from past experience, were off limits. With nothing to hide behind, all they could do was dodge when the other threw a missile- pirouettes and graceful leaps which they’d have been embarrassed about in public. Twice they fell, slipping on the snow and falling hard on their arses, but scrambling back up with fresh ammunition as the other advanced, laughing. Rosie squealed, not understanding what they were doing, but knowing her daddies were laughing and happy so she jumped around the yard excitedly, adding a new element to their game: hit the enemy but avoid hitting Rosie.

By the time Sherlock slipped and fell for the third time, he was sweaty and panting and covered in snow. Before he could get up again, John collapsed beside him, just as breathless, and patted Sherlock’s chest heavily.

“Truce.” He puffed. “Truce?”

“Truce.” Sherlock agreed. The snow was melting into the back of his coat and his arse was completely frozen, but he could feel the warmth of John’s hand through the layers of his clothes. It was just an illusion, a fancy of his overactive imagination, but the weight of John’s hand made Sherlock’s chest hurt worse than the cold air. John still hadn’t moved. He was close, propped up with his other hand over Sherlock, stretched out on the ground beside him, his leg warm against Sherlock’s own and his face less than a foot away. It was undeniably a bedroom pose. They were close enough to kiss.

Just as the thought crossed Sherlock’s mind, it seemed to cross John’s as well. He cleared his throat, removing his hand and moving away from Sherlock.

“Boys! Come inside! I have hot chocolate ready and biscuits for Rosie!” Mrs. Hudson called from her door and Rosie, who was still learning speech but knew the word ‘biscuit’ like her own name, hurried toward Mrs. Hudson. John pulled himself to his feet and Sherlock slowly raised up, processing what had just happened.

Had something happened?

He took John’s offered hand but as soon as he was vertical, John dropped it and turned away, back to the house. A cloud rolled over the sun, pitching the yard into a temporary darkness and icy wind swirled through the yard, blowing tendrils of snow around him. Suddenly, even the promise of hot chocolate wasn’t enough to warm Sherlock’s insides. He slowly trudged after the little group, dragging his feet, destroying Rosie’s cute little trails as he did.


	3. Day 3- Hot Chocolate

Their faces red and smarting from the cold, they all piled in the door of Mrs. Hudson’s warm and cozy flat, knocking their feet against the door frame to loosen the snow before they stepped inside.

“Make sure you get it all off. Don’t even think about getting my carpets wet, you two.” Mrs. Hudson scolded, one eye on John and Sherlock’s de-snowing while peeling Rosie out of her layers with a practiced hand as Rosie did her best to escape. She twisted, fussing, snow scattering from her snowsuit onto the carpet, but Mrs. Hudson didn’t seem to mind the mess if it was Rosie who made it.

As soon as she was free, Rosie ran straight for the Christmas tree stood in the corner, babbling excitedly and only John’s quick reaction kept her from leaping onto it. Mrs. Hudson’s flat was much more festive than upstairs. Besides the tree, which was festooned with rope and ornaments and a huge glowing star at the very top, there were lights strung around the room and tinsel trailing along the windows, edges of tables, and the mantel. Sprigs of mistletoe hung in the doorways and large baubles dangled in front of the windows, catching the lights from the snow as they slowly rotated and throwing rainbows all over the room. Jaunty Christmas music drifted from the kitchen and the smell of something mouthwatering was baking in the oven.

Sherlock finished scraping his shoes against the mat and closed the door, shutting out the cold wind. John was holding Rosie up to the tree, letting her reverently touch the ornaments with pudgy fingers and telling her what each one was.

“Lamb, see? That’s a baby sheep. Lamb.”

“La.”

“Yeah, good. And that one…well…that’s a dancing…woman. Hm. Look at this one, Rosie! A Santa!”

Sherlock knew if he walked over, Rosie would be pleased. She’d smile and reach for him and tell him all about the tree, but Sherlock didn’t always need to be pushing his way into moments between Rosie and John. John was her father. He deserved some privacy with her to make their own happy memories. Sherlock didn’t want to be selfish.

When Sherlock finally dragged his eyes away from them, it was to find Mrs. Hudson watching him from the kitchen doorway, a shrewd, knowing look on her face. Sherlock knew her feelings about John and Rosie, and what she thought Sherlock and John should do about their…situation. She had told him, in no uncertain terms. Quite a few times.

Sherlock blushed and looked away. “Well. I think I’ll just go upstairs-“

“No so fast, young man! I’ve made hot chocolate and you three need to warm up.” Mrs. Hudson protested. “We’ll listen to Christmas carols on the radio and you can deduce what they’ll play next.” She offered happily, a balm to entice Sherlock to stay.

“No. Thank you.”

Mrs. Hudson crossed her arms, the smile melting from her face. “I wasn’t asking.”

* * *

 

Sherlock settled at the little table while Mrs. Hudson gave Rosie warm chocolate, adding a few marshmallows which Rosie loved, then plunked a cup of chocolate in front of Sherlock with a stern eye. He made a show of sipping it, slurping at the drink noisily and earned another dirty look. He stopped.

John sat Rosie on his lap across the table from Sherlock and gave her a chocolate biscuit from the tray for her to mash. He thanked Mrs. Hudson for the hot chocolate and took a sip with obvious relish while Sherlock snuck stealthy glances at him over the rim of his cup.

John looked better than he had in months, happy and relaxed. His hair was mussed, slightly damp from the snowball fight, and his cheeks were rosy and flushed. One arm was wrapped around Rosie’s middle to keep her from falling off his lap, providing safety and love, and the green of his sweater complimented the joyful brightness of his eyes. He was cheerful, asking Mrs. Hudson about her friend in hospital and offering advice about aching joints from the cold. Nothing gave away the fact that he’d spent the better half of the year moody and depressed, struggling through the death of his wife.

Sherlock liked to think he had something to do with John’s happiness, but he doubted it. John had made great strides in his “recovery” all on his own. Therapy sessions were twice weekly and he kept a steady job. He'd joined a gym after moving back to 221B a few blocks over which kept him healthy and active. He’d got a sitter for Rosie, unless Mrs. Hudson could take her, and he was meticulous about making plans and keeping up with dates and things like that. Gone were the days of passing Rosie off to any available friend for days on end and forgetting he had a daughter. Ever since John moved back, he cooked and fed Rosie and badgered Sherlock to eat because Rosie wouldn’t unless she saw that Sherlock was too. Bedtime, bath time, playing, meals, laundry…it was all done by John. He wasn’t a perfect father, but he was trying his best. So yes, John was well on his way to recovering, but Sherlock didn’t think he’d helped in that.

“The weatherman said it’ll start snowing again tonight.” Mrs. Hudson offered Sherlock a decorated sugar cookie and he took it with some trepidation. “I thought I’d make a pot of soup this afternoon. It’ll be so cozy, snowing outside and warm inside, with a nice hot bowl of soup. And maybe some homemade bread. They’re showing that one Christmas special tonight. The American one with the dancers who need to save their inn? Which one is it?”

“It’s A Wonderful Life?” John guessed gamely, but Mrs. Hudson shook her head, wincing. John was hopeless with musicals.

“No, no. There’s no dancers in that. Or well, there are, but they only dance for a little while and then they all fall into that pool under the gym floor. And they’re trying to save their business, not an inn. Well, actually the whole town- but. I’m not good with all those American movies. My husband liked them but I think they’re all the same from that time. No, I think there was something ‘holiday’ in the title. It had Bing Crosby in it. You know, the singer?”

“White Christmas?”

“Oh! Maybe…no, no. That had Bing Crosby in it, but I think that’s the one with Rosemary Clooney. I never liked her- seemed stuck up, you know.” Mrs. Hudson wrinkled her nose. “She apparently did a lot of things for the soldiers during World War II, but there was always something about her…Oh! What was it?”

Sherlock gripped his mug to keep from shouting, his nerves raw from the inane chatter. “Was it Holiday Inn?”

“Yes! That’s the one!” Mrs. Hudson cried. “Holiday Inn! It has Fred Astaire in it. The dancer. Dashing young man. I used to love watching him perform-”

“How’d you know that?” John asked and Sherlock opened his mouth, response ready (it was for a case in which the killer enjoyed watching a cheery Christmas special whilst he killed his victims) when-

“Oh, Sherlock and I watched a whole marathon of specials last Christmas. Didn’t we? Night after night of them.” Mrs. Hudson explained as if this were the most natural thing in the world, and Sherlock wanted to crawl under the table. “Mary had just come back and you were spending the holidays with her and you two were going to lots of parties and things. So Sherlock and I had our own ‘do.’ I made the nibbles, Sherlock got the wine, and then we piled up on my sofa and watched…oh, I can’t even remember how many shows! For days and days. Whatever was playing. It was nice, just the two of us.”

Sherlock took a nervous sip of his chocolate, avoiding John’s stare. Mrs. Hudson wasn’t wrong. It had been nice.

It had also been one of the worst Christmases Sherlock had ever spent.

Not the _worst_ Christmas, (that had been in Serbia but he wouldn’t think of that-moving on) but it was close. After her long, unexplained absence, Mary had been invited to lots of parties by her friends wanting to catch up (and find out what had happened). She and John had gotten a sitter for Rosie and every night seemed like another get together or party or a meet-up for drinks. Mary had barely had time to tell Sherlock about what she and John been up to on the rare occasions they’d seen each other, before it was back to their social whirlwind. It had been fine. John and Mary were married. That was what married couples did. They went to parties with their friends. They spent the holidays together. They didn’t spend time with their weird friend who was terrible in social situations and took cases to keep himself off drugs.

John hadn’t even texted Sherlock on Christmas.

That had hurt. More than anything else. Sherlock hadn’t thought John and Mary would actually visit- they were busy, obviously- but Sherlock had thought he rated at least one small text. But as Christmas day wore on, and afternoon turned to evening, it became clear that no text was coming.

Sherlock had composed, then deleted, a few different versions of “Happy Christmas” to John, but finally gave up in disgust. He’d turned his phone off, accepted that John was too busy, and forgot about it. Tried to forget about it.

Mrs. Hudson had found him that evening, curled up on the sofa, sad and dejected. She’d bullied Sherlock downstairs, propped him on her sofa, and set about making his day better.

John was still looking at him across the table. Sherlock felt the first stirrings of anger. He didn’t want to be looked at and pitied. _Poor Sherlock, the freak without any friends, couldn’t even find someone to spend time with him at Christmas-_

“I thought you had a case. Last Christmas.” John said slowly. “That’s what Mary said you told her. When she invited you over to spend Christmas with us. Something about a missing diamond necklace and a favor to Mycroft. Said you couldn’t get away.”

“I did have a case. That one.” Sherlock admitted, but he didn’t say the case had only taken one night to solve- and that night weeks before Christmas. He’d been at horrible loose ends the rest of the month. The criminal class got lazy around the holidays. Sherlock had been all alone with his thoughts with no distraction: a dangerous combination.

He didn’t always succumb to the memories. PTSD, Mycroft’s therapist had called it, and the man was so credentialed Sherlock figured he was correct in his diagnosis. It was only rarely, when something triggered it, that Sherlock was overwhelmed: back in a cold, dark cell, hungry and sore, when being left alone was the only time he felt safe and when he heard the footsteps coming closer knew it meant-

“The Duchess’s diamond?” Mrs. Hudson asked pertly, and Sherlock willed her to be quiet. Just this once, be quiet. “But you figured that out ages before Christmas, Sherlock. I remember because she wore the necklace to that Christmas party and we saw it photographed in the papers. I think I still have that issue laying around somewhere-“

John frowned. “Mary said you were working on Christmas. She said that you’d texted her-“

“I did. I’ve probably just forgotten.” Sherlock downed the rest of his hot chocolate, handed the mug to Mrs. Hudson. “Thank you.” He bit out. “I’ll be upstairs.”

“Sherlock-“

Sherlock picked up his coat and scarf to make his escape but Mrs. Hudson waylaid him in the doorway.

“Maybe we could do it again this year.” She suggested brightly, gripping his arm with enough steel that belied her age. “I’ll make the food again, and you get some good wine. John can bring Rosie down and we’ll all kip on my sofa.”

“Might be nice.” John said evasively, clearly not wanting to sleep on his landlady’s sofa instead of his own bed, especially with a child who kicked. He was still staring at Sherlock, though, puzzled, while Sherlock continued to carefully avoid him. But John’s lukewarm response seemed to satisfy Mrs. Hudson who turned the radio up, oblivious to the chaos she’d caused. It was a clever act.

Sherlock saw right through it.

“What do you think they’ll play next, Sherlock?”

Sherlock sighed, chucking Rosie under the chin as he passed to make her smile, and opening the door. “They’ve been playing contemporary songs the whole time. This particular station likes to mix the old in with the new, but nothing too old and obscure that their audience won’t know it. Odds are, 10 to 1, it will be White Christmas.”

There was an expectant pause as the commercials tapered off. Then-

Mrs. Hudson exclaimed and John laughed as the nostalgic strains of “White Christmas” played from the radio.

“Got it in one.” John pronounced solemnly. Sherlock shot him a quick look, but he couldn’t tell what John was thinking and, as Mrs. Hudson started talking again about their Christmas movie marathon, he beat a hasty retreat.


	4. Day 4- Books

“This is apparently a very popular book. I’m not sure why.”

Sherlock turned over the slim, hard backed book he’d bought yesterday so that Rosie could see the cover. Freshly bathed, nappied, powered, and ready for bed in her purple and gold princess pajamas, Rosie blinked sleepily up at him. She didn’t seem all that impressed with the colorful flying Santa and his reindeer as they soared over a house, their sleigh laden with presents.

“I thought you’d like this one- well. That’s not true. This book was the most popular one. There was another you would have liked more, I think. A Zombie’s Night Before Christmas. Blood. Skeletons. Our friend, the skull. Oozy things. But I didn’t think your father would approve. So. Basic and boring it is.”

Sherlock settled in the chair beside Rosie’s bed, which was pushed against the far wall in John’s room. The room was very cramped, with all of John’s things mostly still in cardboard boxes around the edges, and John’s bed and dresser taking up the most space. Adding Rosie’s little bed and her toys and bookshelf made the room almost claustrophobic. It would be an untenable situation in a few years, never mind when Rosie became a teenager. They’d figure it out when they got there, Sherlock supposed.

He cleared his throat, and began to read. “Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.” He wrinkled his nose. “If they have mice in their house they need to move. Or get an exterminator. Anyway… Their stockings were hung by the chimney with care- always important when hanging flammable things by a fire, Rosie- in hopes that Saint Nicolas soon would be there…”

The story was an old one, and Sherlock fell into the natural rhythm of reading it, voice lowering and raising at each dramatic turn.

“…With a little old driver, so lively and quick, I knew in a moment it must be Saint Nick. More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, and he whistled and shouted and called them by name…’Now, Dasher! Now, Dancer! Now, Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! On Cupid! On, Donner and Blitzen! To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall! Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!”

Rosie was peaceful, staring up at Sherlock with eyes that kept closing, despite her best efforts to keep them open. She’d never heard this story before and her other daddy didn’t read as well as this daddy did, doing the voices and things. He always just read a story to her, but this daddy _performed_. She loved it.

By the time Sherlock got to the part where the narrator saw Santa laying out the presents, Rosie was asleep. Sherlock kept reading, though. He didn’t know if she would still make a good memory of this, but even asleep she would be aware of his voice. That would soothe her to a deeper sleep.

“He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, and away they all flew like the down of a thistle. But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,” Sherlock lowered his voice, checking that Rosie was still asleep. “Happy Christmas to all…and to all a good-night!”

He closed the book softly, placed it on the bedside table, and touched Rosie’s forehead gently. “Goodnight, Rosie.”

He eased himself up and out of the chair so it wouldn’t creak, and tiptoed to the door. He was so intent on not making a sound, not waking Rosie, that he was halfway across John’s room before he looked up-

John was standing in the doorway, leaned against the frame, half-hidden in the shadows from the hall. He was watching Sherlock’s progress- who knew how long he’d been there?- and when Sherlock finally saw him, he tried to smile, one side of his mouth twitching upward but the smile didn’t quite make it and fell flat. John jerked his head, an invitation for Sherlock to follow him downstairs, and pushed away from the door. Sherlock checked that Rosie was still asleep and followed.

He had overstepped himself. He knew he had toed the line earlier when he’d taken Rosie outside and taught her snowballs, but tucking her in and reading her a bedtime story was distinctly Parent Territory. No doubt Mary had often read Rosie stories, and John too, before kissing her cute little face and turning off the light. It wasn’t something other people were supposed to do, taking the place of a parent. Try and take the place of Rosie’s mother.

Which wasn’t possible, Sherlock argued with himself as he slowly made his way downstairs, marshaling his defense and what he would say to John. He couldn’t be like Mary. He knew he couldn’t.

John paced into the sitting room ahead of him and Sherlock hovered at the foot of the stairs, reluctant to move further, knowing there would be a fight. He watched as John turned to face him, his hands on his hips.

“What’s all this about, Sherlock?”

Sherlock glanced around the darkened room, only illuminated by the Christmas lights which he’d forgotten to unplug. Now, staring at them in all their obvious garishness, they made him feel foolish. “I’m sorry, John.” He began slowly. “I know I’ve-“

“Wait, wait, wait. What do you mean?” John stopped him. “Why’re you _sorry_?”

“About ‘all this’.” Sherlock gestured to the lights, irritated. “You don’t like it. It’s upsetting you and then after tonight-“

“Why'd they be upsetting to me- and what about tonight?”

“Upstairs. With Rosie.” Sherlock clarified. John’s eyebrows went up and Sherlock sighed and leaned against the door. John was going to make him say it. “I’m sure you wanted to read her to sleep. That’s your place as her father and…I know you didn’t want to have a large celebration for Christmas this year. Since it’s…Mary’s only been dead for…” Sherlock gestured helplessly. “I just thought…Rosie’s old enough to start forming memories and I wanted…I wanted her to have happy memories here.”

“Yeah, you said that last night.” John said quietly, and he didn’t sound angry or upset, so Sherlock continued.

“I know that it’s not my place- but I wanted to do something nice for her since it’s Christmas. She deserves to have all the happy memories we can give her. That _I_ can give her. I know it won’t be as nice as anything Mary could have done,” Sherlock admitted, the confession like ash in his mouth, but he may as well state the obvious, “but it can still be something… somewhat nice.”

“What Mary could have done.” John repeated sardonically. “What Mary could have-“ He broke off and took a deep breath, visibly calming himself. “We didn’t have Christmas traditions. Mary always wanted to celebrate Christmas.” He said. “Oh, she was big on having a huge tree with just the right ornaments on it, all of them looked like old family heirlooms, but they weren’t. She bought them from one of those posh stores in Harrods. And she wanted a wreath on the door and lights strung over everything. Centerpieces on every table and special napkins and things like that.” John shook his head. “But she didn’t actually enjoy any of that stuff, Sherlock. None of it. It was just another layer of her pretending to be normal and having the perfect family Christmas and going to every party she could and being seen as happy and friendly and normal with her husband and her daughter. She watched how to do it all on YouTube- the dinner, the jokes- and wrapped the presents like a professional and fucking staged them under the tree. The presents always felt rehearsed too. Safe and normal stuff. Bought me a tie last year.”

What had Mary been thinking? John rarely ever wore ties. As soon as the thought crossed Sherlock’s mind, he felt bad for being disingenuous. Mary had probably thought John would look handsome in it.

_He_ thought John looked handsome when he wore ties.

“She bought Rosie special clothes that were ruffled and Christmas-y. Rosie hated them. They were stiff and the lace scratched. She’d scream and cry when Mary put her in them, but she did anyway and we took photographs and Mary framed them and showed them off…” John sighed, shaking his head again, frustration coming off him in waves. His voice was bitter enough to choke on. “She didn’t like doing it. Any of it. She just did it because she thought she should. That was what normal people did, so she did it too. Like having a big Christmas…and a husband. A family. …There was nothing about her that was real. I’ve realized.”

Sherlock was quiet. He’d never heard John talk about Mary like that. Oh, John had been angry with her. He’d said a few hurtful things here and there. He’d never given voice to this level of animosity.

Sherlock had known that Mary shammed a lot of her enthusiasm and interests. She “loved” baking and enjoyed her friends and co-workers bragging about her skills, but she’d actually hated the tediousness of it. She watched the popular shows (which were boring), listened to the normal music (inane), copied her look from fashion magazines (regular), had correct opinions on almost everything that coincided with John’s (predictable). She’d shaped herself to be absolutely normal, and to fit John’s idealperfectly. Even her job was perfectly tailored to match John’s: playing nurse to John’s doctor. Beautifully.

Sherlock thought John had enjoyed it too, what Mary had offered. The normalcy. The routine. A nice, safe break from the insanity Sherlock put him through. It sounded like John hadn’t always liked it, though. It was a hard thought for Sherlock to reconcile.

“But Christmases here…when you did Christmas it was always so…” John smiled at the room at large and Sherlock followed his gaze. He didn’t see anything special. It was the same flat as it’d always been. Only the lights winked back at him.

“It was real. When you did it, Sherlock. It meant something. You did whatever you wanted and you wouldn’t compromise. The stuff you hated, you said. Loudly. The things you liked, you said you hated too.” John grinned, coming closer to Sherlock who was frozen in the doorway. His heart was suddenly trying to beat out of his chest, and he didn’t know why. “But I knew you liked them anyway. The get togethers when our friends came over. The music. The food. Even, I think, the antlers.”

Laughter startled from Sherlock. “Not the antlers.”

“The antlers.” John insisted, stepping closer, his smile soft. It had to be a trick of the light, but Sherlock thought he saw John’s eyes flick downward-

“And the presents.” John blinked, turned away. “Do you remember what you bought me for Christmas?”

Sherlock didn’t ask which Christmas. He knew which John meant: the last one they’d spent together before Sherlock ‘died’. “The pen and inkwell of the serial killer doctor.”

“With ink.” John added. “Cleaned and ready to be used. You said I could use it at the surgery if I ever needed a pen. The pen of a doctor who liked to kill his own patients. And you know what?”

“What?”

“I used it. I put the goddamn thing on my desk and I used it every chance I got because it was unique and because you knew what I’d like. It was morbid and weird and I shouldn’t have liked it, but I did.”

“Shouldn’t have. Shouldn’t have is boring.” Sherlock scoffed, but gentled his tone by smiling and it felt like old times, easy and friendly, without any shadows between them. John had enjoyed Christmases with him. He’d enjoyed them better with Sherlock than with Mary. The knowledge was a warm glow that wouldn’t go away. Sherlock didn’t want it to.

“I never knew what to get you, though.” John admitted and Sherlock snorted.

“Oh. You know. One can never have too many reindeer jumpers.”

John laughed out loud, happy and surprised. “Well, between that or something bloody. And it’s hard buying body parts legally.”

“I suppose they would be in short supply with the holiday rush.”

“Mm. Usually the first thing the shops sell out of.”

“And you call yourself a doctor.” Sherlock chided and this time he knew he didn’t imagine John’s eyes flicking downward, focusing on Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock wiped at his lips self-consciously, wondering if he had dried hot chocolate smeared from earlier.

“You weren’t really working last Christmas.” John said quietly. “Were you?”

Sherlock took a deep breath. He hated to slander Mary and skew John’s opinion of her but- “No. I wasn’t.”

“Mary said you were.”

Sherlock thought he knew why Mary had done that, but he didn’t want to be unfair to John’s wife. “Maybe…she’d been mistaken-“

“No, Sherlock.” John held up a hand, moving closer. “Just. No. No more excuses for her. It feels like all I’ve been doing the past year and a half is making excuses for her. For her behavior. For everything she did and you know what?”

“What?”

“I’m fucking sick of it. I don’t want to hear you making excuses for her either. She doesn’t deserve them. Especially not from you. She didn’t want you there with us, so she lied about it. She didn’t even invite you, did she?” When Sherlock shook his head, John smiled sadly. “She knew what she was doing. She doesn’t deserve excuses. That’s…the long and short of it.”

_I wanted to be there. Even if that meant I had to watch you and Mary be a happy couple and parents to Rosie. I wanted to be near you._

“I wanted you to be there, you know.” John said, voice so low Sherlock had to lean closer to hear it and John mimicked his movement. “I thought about texting you all day…but then it was late and Mary had said you were busy and it just…didn’t seem the right time.”

“I almost texted you, too.” Sherlock hesitantly admitted and he saw John stiffen, his eyes focus on his mouth again, pupils large in the darkness. Sherlock realized with a jolt that they were close, less than a foot of space between them. He didn’t remember John moving, when or why he’d done, but he was there, close enough to reach out and touch. Sherlock wondered what John would do if he did just that. If Sherlock reached out his hand and-

“So.” John clapped his hands together heartily, breaking the moment as effectively as a gunshot, turning away. “Rosie. Happy memories, you said?”

“Y-yes.” Sherlock blinked, trying to reorient his scattered thoughts. What? What had they been discussing? “Rosie. Um. A-according to research…um… babies are supposed to start…developing the, uh…the cognitive ability to create memories from…from the experiences they have from…well, around the age of 2. It’s crucial to provide them…with a wide range of experiences, the majority of which should be happy and good. Thus-“

“The Christmas decorations.” John finished. “And the book- which I didn’t mind you reading to Rosie by the way. Don’t know why you’d think that. You’re just as much a…I mean, you’re welcome to read to her. Whenever you want.”

“Thank you. And of course this morning with the snow, and hot chocolate with Mrs. Hudson. It’s all for happy memories. Obviously, no one can make a child’s every waking moment perfect, but-“

“You can try.” John finished for him, beaming like Sherlock had done something clever.

“Yes.” Sherlock repeated simply, wondering if John were making fun of him. “I can.”

“If anyone could do it, I think you could, Sherlock.” John declared, and while Sherlock was trying to parse through what exactly that meant, John brushed past him, heading toward the stairs.

“I’m going to bed. Don’t stay up too late, yeah?”

Sherlock grunted, his mind still whirring as he tried to make sense…today in the snow…the way John sometimes looked…John had enjoyed Christmases with him…John didn’t want Sherlock making excuses for Mary…John’s eyes, large, staring at him from less than a foot away-

Sherlock came to his decision and raced for the stairs. “ _John_!”

“Yeah?”

He couldn’t say it. Sherlock’s momentary daring failed him in the face of action. What if he were wrong? What if he said something and destroyed the fragile peace he and John had together, finally, after everything they’d been through? John was paused almost at the top of the stairs, and when Sherlock stayed silent, he came down another stair, concerned.

“Sherlock?”

“Earlier. You said…you said you never knew what to get me for Christmas.”

“Yeah. I was always shite at it. Going to give me a hint for this year?”

_You. It’s always you, John. I only ever want you_.

“I don’t need anything.” Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. He saw that it was shaking and quickly lowered it before John noticed. “I…it was always enough for me…just you. Being there. With me.”

There it was. His heart out in the open for John to see. Sherlock had eviscerated himself and he was waiting for John to put him back together again. For a moment, Sherlock didn’t think John was going to respond. He was very still on the stairs, one hand tightly gripping the bannister. Sherlock couldn’t see John’s face in the dark but he thought he looked tense, his body a rigid line in the gloom.

“I...That’s…Um. I…I was always glad…you were there, too. Sherlock. Really. Goodnight.” John hurried up the rest of the stairs and disappeared into his room without looking back. The door closed behind him and Sherlock wilted. Disappointment was a thick, unpleasant thing lodged in his throat. When he turned back to the sitting room, the cheery lights blurred in his vision until he unplugged them from the wall, pitching the room into darkness.

“Goodnight, John.”


	5. Day 5- Ice Skating

Each year, one of the seasonal highlights in London was the skating rink in front of the Natural History Museum. It was a small, man-made lake of frozen ice which covered the entire square and was booked full weeks in advance. Classes were offered and people could rent ice skates on Cromwell Road or, if they weren’t feeling adventurous, they could sit in the museum’s café which offered a bird’s eye view of the rink and eat pastry and drink hot chocolate while they laughed at the people falling down below. Most everyone wanted to skate, though, and on the morning of December 5th, the rink was crowded. The recent snowfall had inspired everyone to do something in the “spirit of the season”, and what was better than ice skating? The sun sparkled on the icy expanse, throwing a dazzling glare up into the faces of those watching, and children’s shouts rose and fell as they skated. Adults glided around the rink, some elegant and graceful, hand-in-hand, while other staggered around in fits and starts. Everyone was having fun- even when one of the staggering skaters tripped and his feet went out from under him. Those around laughed, and his partner gave him a genial hand up. They skated on together, stiff-legged and awkward but enjoying themselves with huge grins.

It had been years since Sherlock had ice skated, but he wasn’t racing toward the Natural History Museum so he wouldn’t miss his session. He was chasing a man who had been stealing presents from a local children’s charity, then reselling them online. The man had managed to get away with his activities the last few weeks because he had infiltrated the charity with a genius disguise. The nuns had never suspected the happy, nice young man they’d hired to play Santa Claus to the children was stealing their donations at night.

When the Mother Superior came to Sherlock, concerned with the theft, it had taken he and John half the morning to work it out. They’d confronted the man, there at the church, and then, as they say, the chase was on.

How a man could run so fast in a full Santa costume, complete with clunky boots, beard, and belly suit, was beyond John, but he puffed his way after him all the same. They’d already ran a handful of blocks and their thief didn’t seem to be tiring. If anything, the longer they ran, the more desperate he seemed.

“This way!”

John veered sideways, pelting after Sherlock’s shout down a narrow side street.

“Where-?”

Sherlock didn’t answer but John hadn’t expected him to. Neither of them had breath for conversation. There was a stitch in John’s side that hurt with every breath and his lungs were aching sharply from the cold air. His muscles were still pumping, not even tired. He felt more exhilarated than he had in months. They burst out into the open, at the edge of Cromwell Road, the tall, graceful Natural History Museum looming in front of them.

“There!” Sherlock pointed at the distant figure of a decidedly Not Nice Santa rudely pushing his way through the crowd of holiday skaters. He was elbowing and shoving his way through the mass, people were screaming, and clearing a path for John and Sherlock to charge after him.

“He’s getting away, John!”

John put on a burst of speed. The Santa had made his way to the front of the crowd and took a leap, skidding over the ice, arms wind-milling wildly. John didn’t hesitate. He ran onto the ice after him, Sherlock right at his back and-

“Fuck!” John’s entire body spun around, his feet slipped on the ice, and he crumpled. Sherlock’s feet flew from under him and he landed beside John, hard, on his back. All the breath left Sherlock’s lungs in a rush and he gaped, stunned, like a fish, unable to breath. Panic was quick to set in, even though he knew his ability to breathe would return, was already returning… He dazedly pushed himself up and squinted across the ice in time to see the Santa disappearing on the far side. His boots had given him just enough traction to make it off the ice without making an arse of himself. Sherlock slumped back onto the ice. Even if the Santa had fallen as well, what would he or John have done? Crawled after him?

Off to Sherlock’s left, John swore- “Fuck!”- and Sherlock heard an annoyed mother huff and pull her child away from them, the ice crunching under their skates, muttering about hooligans and their bad influence.

“Not to worry.” Sherlock waved a hand, struggling his way to standing. “The convent had his information on file. He was stupid enough to give his real name- he was probably stupid enough to write down his address as well. The police can take it from here.”

“Why the _bloody hell_ couldn’t the police have taken it from there- at the convent- before we ran halfway across London?”

“Where would be the fun in that, John?”

John glared up at Sherlock, his jaw clenched. “The _fun_. Sherlock. Would have been that we didn’t make twats of ourselves by running out here. Fucking half-killing ourselves-“

“I think you’re being a little dramatic-“

“No, I’m not!” John yelled and more people exclaimed. They were gathering a crowd, more people were skating over to see what was going on, and everyone was staring at them. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for shouting at you-“

“Can you walk?” Sherlock asked, and when John nodded, he bent and helped him up from the ice. As soon as he was on his feet John hissed, leaning heavily against Sherlock, grabbing a fistful of his coat to anchor himself, sending Sherlock off balance and almost bearing them both back down.

“John-!“

“Sprained ankle.” John said tightly, his grip on Sherlock almost painful as he fought to keep from falling. Sherlock tensed, locking his muscles and trying through sheer force of will to keep them vertical. Their feet kept sliding precariously beneath them.

“Are you sure?”

“I know when something’s sprained, Sherlock. I am a fucking doctor.” John snapped, then hummed beneath his breath. “Sorry. Really. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…Just. Help me over there.” He nodded to the far side of the ice where there were benches for parents to sit and watch their children. Sherlock wrapped his arm around John, under his arms, and John looped his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders for stability.

They made their slow, shuffling way to the benches, the crowd parting for them, and John cursing under his breath with every step. Sherlock felt very guilty. His own back smarted and stung from the fall. There was a throbbing knot forming at the base of his skull where he had hit the ice. Nothing serious, though. Clearly John was in more pain.

It was a slow, perilous journey to the benches. People were still gathered round them, staring, some pointing. A teenager raised their phone and took a photograph. They were still on ice without skates and Sherlock’s shoes were meant for dress, not ice. Not only that, but John was unstable, limping along and unable to put much weight on his ankle.

Finally- thank god- Sherlock lowered John onto a bench with a blessed sense of relief. John groaned and twisted on the hard bench, wincing. “Landed wrong on my hip too.”

Sherlock dithered, not knowing where to put his hands, where to help or how. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah. Just.” John glanced behind Sherlock where people were still staring at them. Another teenager took a picture. John’s face darkened. “Got a plan on getting us out of here?”

“Yes, but I didn’t plan on your ankle being sprained while we did it.”

“Can’t Mycroft just sent a helicopter and pick us up from here?”

“I didn’t know you’d get hurt.” Sherlock felt it necessary to say, but John waved him off.

“I know you didn’t. It’s fine. Just…get us out of here. Yeah?”

“I’ll get us a cab.”

* * *

 

“You know,” Sherlock said as they waited for their cab to arrive, “this would be an ideal spot.”

“For what?”

“Rosie. Her happy Christmas memories. We could bring her ice skating. I could teach her how, or you could hold her and skate around the ice. At night, they-“

“I doubt we’ll be doing that, Sherlock.”

“Why?”

“Because if I’m not mistaken, those people are the managers and from the way they’re looking at us, I think we’re about to get a lifetime ban.”

* * *

 

The cab pulled up to the curb on Cromwell Road, as close as it could, but it was still far from the bench John was sat on. Sherlock helped him up, John looped an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders again, and they made their slow, slow, slow way around the rink. John was rigid beside Sherlock, his breathing unsteady. Sherlock worried John was in more pain than he was admitting and he mentally ran through their list of first aid items at the flat- elastic wrap, poultices, pain medicine- and hoped it would be enough. He wasn’t worried about himself. A few bruises, a lump which would be tender for a few days. Nothing serious.

They finally made it to the cab, and John seemed better once he was in the back seat and away from prying eyes. He placed his ankle gingerly in the floor, his brow furrowed heavily when the pain in his ankle began pulsing from the angle. Sherlock suggested John put his foot in his lap.

“That’s okay, Sherlock.” John dismissed him, not even bothering to look at him. That stung.

“It’ll only hurt worse if you keep it in that position.” Sherlock pointed out. He didn’t know why John was being so stubborn. He was a doctor, as he was so very fond of pointing out. He knew things like that. “Here. Put it on my lap.”

John shot him a look from the corner of his eyes. “No. I’ll get your suit dirty.” “I’ll have it dry cleaned. Come on.”

Sherlock reached for John’s foot and they had a small tussle in the backseat over possession of it. Ultimately, Sherlock emerged victorious and placed John’s foot in pride of place over his lap. John, red-faced, glowered at him the rest of the ride to the flat.

* * *

 

Once they got home, the real problem began. There were stairs to contend with, and there was no easy way to get John up to their flat.

“Maybe lower a rope.” John suggested. “I’ll tie it round my middle and you can pull me up.”

“Like Rapunzel?”

“What?”

“Rosie’s movie. Her favorite princess. The one in the purple dress. Rapunzel. The girl with the impossibly long hair?”

John was staring at Sherlock like he’d sprouted a second head. “I didn’t know you knew about Rapunzel.”

“How could I not? I’ve sat through that movie at least a hundred times with Rosie.”

John chuckled ruefully. “God, I know. Used to be she wouldn’t go to sleep without it. I’ve dreamed about destroying that DVD.”

“Mm.”

“But, uh, yeah. Like Rapunzel. You can go upstairs and I’ll yell up, Sherlock, Sherlock, let down your pretty hair!” John demonstrably ran his fingers through the short curls at the nape of Sherlock’s neck. It was a friendly caress. A throwaway touch. Sherlock told himself that, but he still shivered, his skin prickling beneath John’s fingers, and he couldn’t stop an embarrassed flush from staining his cheeks. He prayed John didn’t notice.

“I think we’d better try the stairs.” He muttered and John agreed, not saying another word. He also removed his fingers from Sherlock’s hair.

They settled for the same method they’d used to get John to the cab: Sherlock supporting him and John’s arm around Sherlock’s shoulders. They made their way up the stairs at a snail’s pace. John was snugged up close to Sherlock’s side. He was near enough for Sherlock to feel him breathe, his sides expanding, and hear every inhalation of breath. He could feel the way his muscles were tensed in pain and, Sherlock blushed even deeper to admit, he could smell John. John’s soap mingled with his sweat from running and Sherlock breathed as deep as he was able to and get away with it, in what he hoped was a unobvious a way possible each time John had to make his awkward little hope up to the next stair.

They were so close.

It reminded Sherlock of teaching John how to dance.

John had wanted to learn to dance for his wedding, a simple waltz to surprise Mary and somehow, Sherlock had volunteered to teach him. For four afternoons, they had danced together, closing the curtains in the flat and pitching it into near-darkness, with a slow waltz playing in the background. Even knowing John was learning to dance so he could do so with Mary at their wedding, those afternoons had been the most romantic experiences of Sherlock’s life. John’s hand gripped in his own and John’s other hand on his waist, moving them slowly around the room while Sherlock kept count, easing John through the unfamiliar motions.

They had been close together then, too. A waltz was a proper dance, with enough space between the partners so as to not be obscene, but it was still closer than Sherlock had been to John since he’d returned. If one didn’t count John’s violent greeting of Sherlock at the restaurant that first night.

Sherlock didn’t.

He still remembered the last evening of practice, mere days before John’s wedding. Sherlock had been focusing in the middle distance to the left of John’s shoulder, separating himself as much as he was able from the feel of John’s hand at the small of his back, the way John’s fingers curled warmly around his hand. John was getting married in a few days and then he’d be gone forever. Sherlock only had this last night to teach him how to dance, he had to make it count…when Sherlock was suddenly peripherally aware that John was staring at him.

Most of the time when they danced, John was focused on their feet, watching where he placed his own, where Sherlock’s were in relation to his, and the necessary steps of the dance. But that afternoon, John was looking at him. Sherlock could tell his eyes were focused on his face and he wondered why, and how long John had been staring. He’d waited for John to look away as they continued their usual circuit around the room.

He hadn’t.

He’d kept staring, his eyes becoming an almost physical weight against Sherlock’s skin. And then Sherlock had shifted his gaze, met John’s eyes from the nearness of their embrace, and slowly, they’d stopped dancing. Sherlock didn’t know which of them had stopped the dance, but they stood together, hands gripped, John still pulling Sherlock close with a hand at the small of his back. The music still played from the speakers, a slow waltz with the regularity of beats Sherlock knew in his sleep and which he would now, he knew, associate with dancing with John in the darkness of their- his- flat.

John hadn’t move his hands. He kept regarding Sherlock, as if he were puzzled about something, like he did when Sherlock had done a deduction and John was still struggling to catch up. Sherlock could see the play of thoughts across John’s face, as he tried to make sense of whatever it was he was thinking. Sherlock wondered if John had forgotten the steps.

“Do you understand?” Sherlock had prompted. Maybe John hadn’t forgotten the steps but was done dancing?

John blinked at him. Sherlock watched his jaw clench rhythmically as he debated with himself. He wanted to say something. Sherlock could see the turmoil in John’s eyes, his indecision as he struggled. His palm was suddenly sweaty in Sherlock’s hand, his posture stiff. Sherlock thought he knew what was wrong.

It was common for soon-to-be grooms to get anxious before the wedding. Sherlock had read all about it as research in planning for John and Mary’s wedding. Everyone always talked about the women being nervous, but the men were just as much so. John needed more confidence. Really, he wasn’t that bad of a dancer. He was probably nervous about embarrassing himself, or Mary, at their wedding reception in front of all their friends. Sherlock doubted there would be any dance more elaborate than the one he’d taught John. He knew John was ready. Mary would enjoy dancing with him.

Sherlock certainly had.

So he’d given John his best ‘I believe in you’ look, squeezed his hand in what he hoped was a positive way, and said- “I think you understand.”

John had dropped Sherlock’s hand like it burned and swiftly stepped away from him, putting half the room between them in seconds. Sherlock was left bereft, his hands still held in position.

“John-?”

“Great. Yeah. I’ve got it.” John had said, voice strangled, looking everywhere but at Sherlock. His eyes were wide and if Sherlock hadn’t known better, he would have said John was scared. “Then we’re done here?”

“If you want.” Sherlock said carefully. “John?”

John hesitated, then nodded curtly, brushed past Sherlock to get his coat, and was gone. Down the stairs and back to Mary.

* * *

 

Sherlock helped John ease onto the sofa and then gathered the med kit and some ice from the kitchen. He went back through to the sitting room and perched on the edge of the sofa. “Let me see-“

“I’ll do it.” John reached for the wrap, but Sherlock held it out of his reach.

“The angle’s wrong. You won’t be able to do it properly.”

“I’m a doctor, Sherlock, I know how to wrap an ankle.”

“I know you do, and you should know then that it works best if you have someone else wrap-“

“I can do it.”

“Just let me.” Sherlock snapped, not even sure why they were arguing or why he was irritated at John. Nevertheless, he carefully propped John’s foot on his lap again and peeled John’s sock off as gently as he could. John sucked in a sharp breath. His ankle was swollen, tight and red, and looked painful. He told Sherlock to manipulate it, but winced when Sherlock did and told him to stop. Sherlock applied the poultice, wrapped the ankle tightly on John’s specific instructions, as if Sherlock didn’t know how, and then propped it on a cushion.

“I’ll go and find the crutches.”

“Wait. It’s your turn.”

“What?”

John gave him a Look. “I know you hurt yourself when you fell, too. Nothing broken, obviously, but let me check your back.”

“No.”

“Sherlock-“

“It’s just bruised, John. There’s no need to make a fuss. I’ve had worse.” The words left his mouth before Sherlock thought them through, and he knew John was remembering The Hospital because John’s face quickly went closed-off and blank. John looked away.

They’d talked about that day once, shortly after Sherlock had left hospital, somewhat recovered from his epic drugs bender. He’d still been sore, bruised, in pain but not allowed painkillers. John had apologized. Sherlock had told him there was nothing to apologize for. It was mended. Over and done with.

“That wasn’t…” Should he try and explain he wasn’t referring to that? Or would that only make the situation worse? “I think the crutches are downstairs.” Sherlock said. “I’ll just…” He motioned to the door and, when John didn’t say anything, he left. If it took him longer than necessary to find the crutches, John didn’t seem to notice.

* * *

 

Sherlock locked the bathroom door and eased his shirt off carefully. Movement hurt. The tissue was deeply bruised. He readied himself for what he’d see before turning to the mirror.

Well.

He was bruised. Obviously. Livid black and purple bruises decorated his entire back where he’d fallen on the unforgiving ice. It looked much more horrible than it was. The bruises were painful, of course, but Sherlock hadn’t been lying when he told John he’d had much worse.

Between the bruises, Sherlock could see the thin white scars on his back, a reminder of his time abroad. His back was a mess of them. They crisscrossed all over, down his spine and over his shoulder blades, running beneath the top of his trousers, some stood out more in relief with dark coloring. The bruises, instead of masking the, only seemed to emphasize their severity.

Sherlock pressed his lips together and carefully did up his shirt again.

* * *

 

“I have a present for Rosie.” Sherlock announced that night, holding his gift behind his back so Rosie couldn’t see. John was stretched on the sofa, looking for all the world like a disgruntled, curmudgeonly owl. His mood had not improved as the day passed, especially as he hadn’t been able to tend to Rosie, resulting in Sherlock taking over and John feeling even more guilty. He raised his eyebrows.

“It’s not Christmas yet.”

“Obviously.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “But I thought it might make the build-up to Christmas more of a treat if Rosie had…this.”

The advent calendar was a pretty white wooden outline of a Christmas tree, with little square doors spaced throughout, each with either a red or green knob, and a different number all the way up until Christmas Day. John raised up on the sofa to get a better look.

“You bought this for Rosie?” The way he said it…it was as if Sherlock shouldn’t have.

“No. It was just something my mother had laying around. Taking up space. Needed to clean out of the attic.” Sherlock shrugged. John’s eyes narrowed. He looked back at the antique advent, but Sherlock turned away from John and his baseless accusations and settled himself on the floor, calling Rosie over.

“You can open the first few days, since we need to catch up.” Sherlock explained, sitting the advent in front of her. He showed Rosie how to open the first door, revealing a pocket-sized doll which was a replica of the princess Rosie loved. She cried out and grabbed it.

The next door opened and out came a small pot of glittery slime.

“Sherlock.” John said from the sofa. “She’ll eat it.”

“She won’t eat it, John.” Sherlock and Rosie spent a few minutes squishing the slime. Rosie loved gross things and Sherlock loved teaching her about them. He explained that this present wasn’t for eating and he knew Rosie understood because she was a very intelligent child. Rosie discovered that if she squished the slime a certain way, it made a very rude sound and she cackled with glee every time she did it.

The next door, December 3rd, was a toy for the bath, a little pirate ship which, when squeezed, sucked up water then spit it back out when squeezed again.

December 4th was a popper toy in the shape of a cat. Sherlock wound it up and Rosie watched it wind down, hopping backward every once in a while. She squealed every time it moved, clapping her hands and looking to John and then Sherlock to get their reaction, then squealing again when it jumped and looking to her daddies to make sure they’d seen.

The final door, December 5th, was a small rubber ball, bright pink with yellow stars, that leapt high with even the slightest bounce. Rosie bounced it for a bit, Sherlock retrieving the ball when it rolled away, but she grew bored and reached for another door. Sherlock stopped her.

“You have to wait until tomorrow. Tomorrow, you can open another.” He promised, but Rosie didn’t understand and cried. It broke Sherlock’s heart.

John distracted her with her new toys while Sherlock put the advent up on the mantle beside the skull, and soon Rosie was playing with her toys, her momentary disappointment forgotten.

* * *

 

Later, when Rosie was put to bed and John and Sherlock were relaxed in the sitting room with a cup of tea apiece, John snorted.

“What?”

“That was nice.” He said. “Those were…really appropriate gifts.”

“I’m not a moron, John. I hope I know what a toddler would find appealing.”

“Never thought you were a moron. You’re the smartest man I know. Just didn’t think you’d have what a little girl would want for Christmas stored up there in the mind palace.”

Sherlock grunted. He didn’t tell John that he’d given Rosie her own wing in his mind palace. He’d made it shortly after she was born, solidified it when he was made godfather. It had suffered during his relapse earlier in the year, like everything else, but a little work and it was back in order and good as new.

“Was that your advent calendar? The one you gave Rosie?” John asked, studying his tea, swirling it around in the cup like he always did when he was upset. John never abused his tea without reason. Sherlock frowned. Honesty was the best route.

“Yes. That one was mine when I was a child. It was a yearly tradition in our house. The advents were sat in front of the Christmas tree and we were allowed to open one door every night. Mycroft had one as well, but his was green. Our parents would put candies and chocolates in his.” They shared a look, and Sherlock smiled. “His advent never made it past December 6th.”

“And what did you get in yours?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Different things. Scientific materials for children. Rocks. Insect displays. Skeletons.”

“Mm. Very Christmas-y. And did you mean what you said earlier? Did your mother really need to get rid of it?”

“It was in her attic, but I asked her for it. I always enjoyed the surprises as a child, even when I got older and could easily figure out what my parents had put in it. It wasn’t about the gifts,” He added. “It was the thoughtfulness they put into finding little things they thought Mycroft and I would like. It was our tradition. I thought Rosie might enjoy it.”

“She did. It was a really thoughtful gift. She loved it.”

“I hope so.”

“She did.” John repeated firmly. “And, for the record, I love the idea. It’s really, really…unique.”

“Thank you.”

“Just don’t put skeletons in Rosie’s advent, yeah?”

“Guess I’ll have to remove December 13th then.”

John lowered his cup. “You’re not serious.”

Sherlock gave John his best incredulous look- and John started laughing. The mood lightened and to Sherlock, even the twinkle lights still strung around the room seemed brighter.


	6. Day 6- Parkas/Big Jackets

“You’re in no fit state to take care of Rosie right now. You’re useless this way. It clearly makes more sense for me to take her with me. If I leave her here, you’ll not be able to keep up with her and she’ll get into everything.”

“It’s a sprained ankle, Sherlock. Not a debilitating injury.” John groused from his position on the sofa. His disgruntled owl look was back again this morning, arms crossed, hair mussed, and shoulders hunched, and Sherlock found it fondly endearing. “You could leave Rosie here. She’s not that much trouble.”

“Exactly. She’s not that much trouble so I should take her with me. She can help me pick out her favorite foods.”

“Everything’s her favorite food when she’s at the shop.”

“Well, you’re always complaining there isn’t enough to eat, not enough materials to cook with. You’re a doctor, not a miracle worker. I need Rosie. She’ll make sure I get everything we need. Won’t you, Rosie?”

“Da!”

John’s lip twitched upward in a reluctant smile and Sherlock knew he and Rosie had won. They were very persuasive.

While John watched telly from the sofa, Sherlock bundled Rosie in her princess attire- sweater, parka, scarf, hat, socks, boots, gloves- but struggled to keep her hat on her head. Rosie kept taking it off and throwing it.

“I know. It crushes your pretty hair.” Sherlock murmured sympathetically, slipping it over her head again while Rosie pouted. “But when it’s cold outside you must put your health before fashion, Rosie.”

John snorted from the sofa, but when Sherlock turned around he was ostensibly watching the telly and not paying attention. Sherlock hurried into his own coat and scarf before Rosie took her hat off again, pocketed the list John had made, and picked Rosie up, ready to brave the crowded shop for necessary supplies.

“Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

“Don’t lose her.”

“I’m not a moron, John.”

“Never said you were. But sometimes she likes to do a runner when you’re not looking. Just. Don’t lose her.”

* * *

 

Sherlock almost lost her.

It happened in the blink of an eye. Rosie cried at the shop when Sherlock put her in the little basket at the front of the trolley for children, so Sherlock let her walk. It was very crowded and they had to go slower because Rosie couldn’t walk very fast, but it was good to encourage her independence. Sherlock didn’t mind.

The problem happened when Sherlock turned to choose a bunch of tomatoes- and when he turned back around to put them in the trolley…Rosie was gone.

His heart stopped.

Rosie. He’d lost Rosie.

In the few seconds it took Sherlock to panic and think of how John would react- the sadness and disappointment- when Sherlock told him that he’d lost his only daughter, the fear of what would happen to her, the hole left in their lives which would never heal, the desperate search Sherlock himself make, never tiring no matter how long it took, and how Mycroft could use his cameras to find who had taken her…

Then, he heard Rosie shouting from the next aisle over.

Sherlock completely abandoned his half-full trolley and ran toward the sound, rounding the corner at a dash. He almost collapsed in relief when he saw Rosie, clad head to toe in purple, with her face pressed against a glass display of brightly colored biscuits. When she saw Sherlock, she grinned and pointed at the pastries, unaware she’d taken several years off his life with worry.

She was very confused when her daddy collapsed to his knees and pulled her into a very tight hug, crushing her hair more than the hateful hat had done. He bought her a chocolate biscuit afterwards, with a Christmas tree iced on it, though, so she didn’t mind very much.

* * *

 

“How’d it go?”

“Mm. Fine.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“She did a runner on you, didn’t she?”

“I don’t know what you mean, John.”

“It’s ok, Sherlock. Really. She’s done that to me more than once. Panics you, doesn’t it?”

“John…I’ve never been so scared in my life.”

“I know. First time it happened to me, I thought she was gone for good. Made a complete tit of myself running around the store, shouting her name. Found her in the candy aisle, opening bags. Ended up buying a ridiculous amount of candy because she’d made such a mess, but I found her. I’ll never forget that feeling.”

“It was terrible.”

“I know….Reminds me of you a bit, you know.”

“What?”

“Rosie. Her doing a runner like that. It’s what you did to me all the time. Running off and leaving me behind while you went and did your own thing. Scared me more than once when you did that. Didn’t know what you were getting yourself in to, dangerous or mad consulting detective arsehole things. Always managed to find you, too….Except for once.”

“…John…”

“Did you get everything on the list? Didn’t forget the nappies, did you?”

“…no.”

* * *

 

“Planning on putting up a tree?”

Sherlock opened his eyes, disoriented at being pulled from his thoughts so quickly. Rosie was downstairs with Mrs. Hudson, the sounds of her playing echoing up the stairs, and John had been peacefully watching telly- “Only thing I can do waiting for this fucking ankle to heal”- for the last hour. The flat was quiet for the first time in days. Sherlock had thought it was a good time for rumination and reflection, mental organization which was always necessary to a well-ordered mind.

“What?”

“A Christmas tree.” John repeated. “Do you plan on doing one?”

“I hadn’t really thought about it.” Sherlock lied. He had thought about it, a few times since that first day, but always talked himself out of it. It was a lot of fuss and bother and he still wasn’t entirely sure John wouldn’t mind it. “You think I should?”

John shrugged, looking back at the telly, disinterested. “If you want to.”

“Clearly you want me to since you’re bringing it up.”

“I’m not bringing it up-“

“Yes, you are.”

“I just asked.” John huffed. “Thought you might want to. That’s all.”

Sherlock studied him shrewdly, narrowing his eyes. “I suppose I could.”

John didn’t respond.

“Rosie would like it.”

John sniffed and didn’t say anything.

“It would please Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock wondered if he dared say his next observation. He did. “I think you would like it.”

John looked at him and Sherlock held his gaze steadily. Finally, John’s lip twitched upward in tacit acknowledgment.

“You might be right.”

“I’m always right, John.” Sherlock said, striding from the room in search of the Christmas baubles.

* * *

 

The tree could have been done within the hour, but it took longer because John and Sherlock kept squabbling. First, they disagreed over where the tree would be positioned. It was a large, posh artificial tree, worth so much John had had to sit down when he first heard the price. It was also very heavy, and John gave unnecessary directions from the sofa while Sherlock strained to move it. It ended up in the corner, behind Sherlock’s chair, and slightly in front of the window so it could be seen from the street.

“It’s crooked.”

“It’s not crooked.”

“Sherlock, I’m sitting right in front of it. I’m telling you it’s crooked.”

“Then get up and fix it yourself.” Sherlock grumbled, throwing John a murderous look which was returned in full measure. He shifted the tree fractionally to the left. “Better?”

“Mm. Bit more.”

“…”

“Maybe to the right this time.”

“ _John_!”

They argued over the arrangement of the lights (“Don’t space them out so much”), the ornaments (“I’ve always hated this one, John. It’s crass. Must you insist on it?”), the tinsel (“That’s the ugliest color I’ve ever seen” “It was on sale.” “Obviously. It would have been the only way they could sell it.”), and the tree topper (“Where did you even find that?” “Rubbish bin on a case. Didn’t want it to go to waste.” “Oh my god.”).

“I thought you said you liked the way I decorated for Christmas!” Sherlock flung down a box of ornaments in complete frustration, sweat standing out on his forehead from his efforts. The plastic baubles sprung from their wrappings and bounced over the floor, rolling under chairs and tables.

“I do.”

“Then why-?” Sherlock didn’t know how to put into words what was happening. He didn’t know why they were fighting, but they couldn’t seem to stop. John kept needling him and he kept responding in kind and… John pursed his lips and had the grace to look abashed.

“I dunno. Guess I…wanted to help.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’m bored out of my mind, sitting here, doing nothing.”

Sherlock bit his lip, worrying it between his teeth, and made a decision. “Here.” He handed the crutches to John, shaking them when John was slow to take them. “You can put the rest of the ornaments on.”

“Sherlock-“

“I’ll put the hook on them and you can put them on the tree. Wherever you like.”

“Deal.” John smiled, took the crutches, and levered himself to his feet.

* * *

 

Rosie loved the tree. She yelled and ran to it as soon as Mrs. Hudson put her down. She stood in front of it, hopping excitedly, and checked to make sure her daddies were aware of the amazing discovery of a pretty, sparkling tree that had appeared in their living room. It was so big she had to lean backward to see all of it. She couldn’t ever remember a tree so big. And this one was extra special because instead of batting her hand away when she tried, her daddies let her touch the ornaments and jiggle them on the tree, even holding her up so she could see everything. There were a few purple ones she loved because it reminded her of her princess.

Afterwards, her fluffy-haired daddy let her open another door in the smaller, plain Christmas tree. This time, Rosie’s present was a set of glittery stickers which she set to work with immediately. The ornaments she could reach on the lower branches of the tree were plastered in the sparkling paper and everyone told her what a great job she had done decorating the tree. The praise, Rosie knew, was her due. She squirmed in delight and made as much noise as possible.

Sherlock met John’s eyes across the room, over Rosie’s head, and smiled. They had done the tree together, and had made something pretty and worthwhile out of it. Rosie loved it. Looking up at it from his seat on the floor, Sherlock admitted that he loved it as well. John gave him a soft smile in return and butterflies burst into life in Sherlock’s chest. He looked away, helping Rosie position another sticker on the tree, but he was hyperaware of John the rest of the evening.


	7. Day 7- Sledding

“I really don’t think this is a good idea, John.”

“I know you don’t, but I swear to god I’ll go crazy if I have to stay inside and do nothing for another day.” John was winded, puffing in the cold, thin air as they made their way through the busy streets of London, on their way to the park. Behind him, rattling through the slushy snow of the sidewalk was Mrs. Hudson’s old sled, pulled out of storage, dusted, and borrowed for the day. Sherlock followed, hands in the pockets of his coat, radiating disapproval.

John was still limping but he was on the mend- unless he exerted himself unnecessarily and undid it all. He had refused to stay put and heal, though.

“You’ll hurt yourself worse.”

“I’ll take it easy.”

“John-“

“Look, Sherlock, I know what you’re about to say,” John stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. People veered around him, grumbling, “and let me just spare us the time- you’re right. I know you’re going to be right about whatever is it you’re going to say. But I can’t keep doing nothing. I can’t. So,” He grinned and Sherlock narrowed his eyes, “we’re all going to the park. We’re going to sled. We’re all going to have a good day. Besides,” He changed tactics to what he knew would work: shaking his hand which held Rosie’s to draw Sherlock’s attention to her, “Rosie wanted to go sledding.”

Sherlock scoffed. “She did not. She doesn’t even know what sledding is.”

“Exactly! So she needs to go out and experience it before the snow melts.”

“There will be more snow, John.” Sherlock pointed out. “It’s not even properly winter yet. There will be snow when you’re fully healed and-“

“She’ll love it, Sherlock. Think how much fun she’ll have.”

Sherlock glanced at Rosie who, unaware of what her daddies were discussing, beamed up at him guilelessly. Sherlock wavered. John, sensing victory, pressed on.

“Mrs. Hudson went to all the trouble of finding her sled for us. You’ve got nothing else on today. I wasn’t needed at work. We’ll have a good time. Happy memories, remember?”

* * *

 

It was a cold, overcast day with lowering grey clouds and little sun. The majority of the snow hadn’t melted yet, and the park was crowded with people strolling along the paths, admiring the smooth, solid surface of the lake and having raucous snowball fights. John, Sherlock, and Rosie made their way to the top of the biggest, snow-covered hill. There were already tracks in the snow where others had been sledding, and there were a few groups of teenagers still there, shouting loudly as they shoved each other down the slope. John towed the sled to the top of the hill, limping awkwardly through the snow, with Sherlock tight-lipped and silent.

Once at the top, he and Sherlock stood looking down at the expanse, planning their attack. Rosie stayed unusually quiet, clutching John’s hand and watching everyone around her with curiosity, but wary when anyone got too close to her. She didn’t like all the noise but her daddies didn’t seem like they were scared, so it must be okay.

John glanced at Sherlock from the corner of his eyes. “Do you even know how to sled?”

“Hardly a difficult concept.”

“It just doesn’t seem like the type of thing you’d have done.”

“Yes, I know how to sled. Mycroft and I used to sled as children.”

“Really? Surprised you were able to get along long enough to sled.”

“Oh no. I always wanted Mycroft on the sled with me. His extra weight gave us better forward momentum to achieve a nippy trip to the bottom.”

John laughed, the sound loud in the oddly muffled silence which always accompanied a large snowfall, and Sherlock let the warmth of it wrap around and heat him all the way down to his toes. Maybe today wouldn’t be such a bad idea. John, still giggling, brought the sled around and positioned it on course.

“Do you want to go down first with her?”

“No. You go.”

John sat Rosie in front of him on the sled, wrapping an arm around her to keep her anchored, and Sherlock pushed them off down the hill. Rosie screamed all the way to the bottom, her ear-splitting volume drawing the attention of everyone in the vicinity. As soon as John let her, she hopped off the sled and did an excited little dance, stomping with her little purple boots. She immediately wanted to go again and so John limped his way back up, dragging Rosie on the sled.

“You next.” He told Sherlock breathlessly. Sherlock gingerly sat on the sled, feeling embarrassed because it was one thing to sled when one was nine, but quite another to sled as a fully grown adult with gangly limbs and odd angles. But John needed a rest for his ankle, Sherlock thought, and climbing back up the hill again would not help him. When John plopped Rosie in front of Sherlock he automatically wrapped his arms around her and tucked his legs in, knees sticking up- then John’s hands were at Sherlock’s back, spreading instant tingles from the firm points of contact…and he was shoving them off the hill at a rapid speed. The bruises on Sherlock’s back smarted as they hurtled down the slope and the wind stung his eyes, making them water. Rosie screamed all the way down and surprisingly, an excited niggle started in the pit of Sherlock’s stomach which he usually only got chasing after criminals.

He’d forgotten: he’d always loved sledding.

Too soon, it was over and they coasted to a stop at the bottom. Rosie did another excited dance, adding a few hand claps for emphasis.

“Hold tight.” Sherlock told her and dragged her on the sled back up the hill. John was waiting for them, grinning.

“Fun?”

“Very fun.”

“Better than sitting at the flat doing nothing?”

“Don’t push it, John.”

* * *

 

They spent the rest of the afternoon sledding down the big hill at the park. Rosie wanted to go over and over. She didn’t get tired of it no matter how many times she raced down the hill with her daddies. Trekking up and down was finally too much for John’s ankle, though, and he conceded defeat. He stayed stood at the bottom and watched Sherlock and Rosie ride for a while, laughing when Sherlock had to scoot them off the top of the hill with his feet. When Rosie started getting fussy, they decided to warm up a bit and get something to eat. There was a café close by and they all trooped to it, shivering, with teeth chattering, only then realizing how cold and wet they were.

The café’s windows were steam-covered and the wonderfully inviting smell of coffee wafted from the door every time it opened. The warmth of the café enveloped them as soon as they stepped inside, along with the rich smell of brewing coffee, freshly baked pastries, a beautifully fitted up Christmas tree in the corner, and soft Christmas music playing from discreetly placed speakers. John, unwinding his scarf, breathed a contented sigh and even Sherlock admitted the atmosphere was very snug. His cheeks stung as the warmth unfroze them and the idea of hot coffee and something hot to eat sounded divine.

John ordered coffees and pastry for himself and Sherlock, and milk and a biscuit for Rosie while Sherlock secured them a table by one of the windows. He settled Rosie on a cushioned seat so she could see over the table and then showed her how to draw on the window using the foggy condensation while they waited for John. Everyone around them was happy, loud, and filled with the sheer joy of the holidays. They were out and about and ready to enjoy themselves and shopping bags were scattered around every group, silly photographs were being taken, and the twinkling lights added to the cheery atmosphere. It was nice. Sherlock pointed out the tree to Rosie and he promised, as John weaved his way over, that they would go and see it before they left.

“Thank you.” Sherlock accepted his cup from John and helped him set the rest of their things on the table. John kept some extravagant looking berry concoction to himself, but slid a chocolate muffin across the table to Sherlock. He gave Rosie a small cup filled with creamy milk and a soft biscuit. Sherlock took a sip of his coffee, then drew back in surprise.

“Everything okay?” John asked, trying to make sure Rosie didn’t shove the entire biscuit in her mouth at once.

Sherlock nodded, taking another small sip, the warm liquid unfreezing his insides, but feeling a different sort of heat from the knowledge that John hadn’t ordered a coffee for him in literal years…and yet he still remembered exactly what Sherlock preferred. It was a little thing, irrelevant really, but Sherlock cradled the cup between his hands as if it were something precious.

“Nice place, this. Ever been before?” John relaxed in his chair with his own coffee, starting in on his pastry with inordinate enthusiasm. He licked the crumbs from the corner of his mouth and Sherlock, still unnerved from the coffee, had to quickly look away.

“No. You?”

“No. Not been out much since…and before that, we always…Well.” John smirked but it didn’t look pleasant. “Guess I shouldn’t complain.”

“It’s…fine.” Sherlock cleared his throat, accepting a soggy bit of biscuit from Rosie and thanking her before pretending to eat it.

“I shouldn’t all the time. Bad habit to get into. But before, we always went where Mary wanted to go. This new place she’d heard about from this friend or that. I dunno. They were okay, the places we went. Nothing bad. I probably should have liked it.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I didn’t.” John admitted. He crumbled a piece of his pastry between his fingers, concentrating on it as if it were somehow important, and smiled wryly. “But…I like it here. You know what I mean?”

Sherlock glanced around the café, at the Christmas decorations, happy people, lights, and calming displays. The woman behind the counter caught his eye and gave him a squinty-faced smile before she turned to the next customer. Sherlock wondered if she had flirted with John. Probably, he thought with a sinking feeling. Everyone always flirted with John.

Sherlock couldn’t blame them.

“Yes.” He said. He could see what would appeal to John about this place. “It’s very pretty. The decorations are nice, not overdone. Good food. Decent coffee, reasonable price. It’s…nice here. I suppose.”

“That’s not really what I…Mm.” John huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah. You’re right. It’s nice here.”

Sherlock sat back, glad that had been established, and looked around at the other people, noticing their surroundings and the play of interactions between the people in the groups. Married couples. Friends. Colleagues. A first date. And slowly, he came to a gratifying, and at the same time distressing, thought.

Everyone in the café thought he and John were together.

He could tell, from the way they glanced first at John, then their eyes slid to Sherlock…Rosie…back to John…it clicked in their brain, and they smiled and turned away. It was there for all to see in the way the waitress asked if “they needed anything else” and grinned at them as she walked away. Obvious the way the elderly women in the corner nudged each other, pointed, and cooed over Rosie, then one of them merrily waved at Sherlock. They thought he and John were together, and that Rosie was their child and they were on an outing just like any other family in London. They were taking a break from having fun and then would leave together to continue being happy. Together.

The deduction made Sherlock feel unbearably hollow inside. Not because he was ashamed people would think he and John were together. Not at all. The fact that people even thought he was worthy of John was…a pleasant idea. But the reality was what he wanted. He wanted it to be genuine, not a façade for passersby to misinterpret. He knew he didn’t deserve John. The past few years had proven that. He didn’t hope for more than what he already had and it was enough that John had moved back in with Rosie and that they were all living comfortably together.

Maybe long ago, Sherlock thought, there could have been more. He’d allowed himself to believe that he meant more to John than what he did. There had been times, when they lived together, that John had seemed…it had almost been as if…but he’d never been quite sure…

While Sherlock had been away, he’d planned and thought and dreamed of what would happen when he returned to John. He’d imagined all the different situations in which he would see John again, and how John would greet him in each and every one:

Sometimes, John was in shock. He fainted. Thought he was seeing a ghost or a hallucination.

Other times, John was angry, felt betrayed by what Sherlock had done. He raged and screamed and hit him, before finally pulling Sherlock into a hug.

Then were the times Sherlock imagined John seeing him, the shock and anger, hurt and betrayal all there on his face…but wiped away as he moved towards him, pulled Sherlock to him, and kissed him for all he was worth. Those had been Sherlock’s favorite deductions.

Sentiment. Stupid, useless sentiment.

John obviously did not enjoy attempts at creating surprise memories. Sherlock’s efforts had gone to waste and he had been thrown to the floor, choked, then hit a few more times before John left with Mary. Hardly the welcome he’d expected.

Still.

What they had now was fine. Fine. It was all fine.

John hummed contentedly, relaxing in his seat, clearly unaware that everyone around them thought they were shagging. “This has been a great day.”

“Has it?”

“You don’t think so?” John asked, drily. “Guess it wasn’t too exciting for you. No one murdered with an icicle or found dead, buried in the snow. No double murders or locked room mysteries to keep you entertained-”

“That wasn’t what I meant.” Sherlock said steadily, interrupting John’s sardonic outburst. “I was… _asking_. Has it been a good day for you?”

John studied him seriously. “Yeah. It’s been a really great day for me.”

“I’ve had a great day, too.” Sherlock flashed John a smile, then turned to Rosie. “Has it been a great day for you, Rosie?”

“Da!”

“Then it’s unanimous.” Sherlock declared. “This day has officially been a success, and,” he added, “You were right.”

“I’m sorry. I was what?”

“You heard what I said, John.”

“No, I don’t think I did. Not correctly anyway. Because it sounded like you said I was right?”

“It’s my tentative hypothesis. We’ll see tomorrow morning if and when your ankle is worse.”

John scoffed, and would have said more, but Rosie chose that moment to start crying. John and Sherlock both reached for her, trying to soothe her and find out what the matter was. It took a while to understand, through her sobs, until Sherlock spotted her biscuit, laying forlornly on the floor. John tried to soothe her, but her cries only got louder. Patrons turned to stare, but Sherlock didn’t care about the attention. He only wanted his darling to stop crying.

He rushed to the counter and returned, triumphant, with a fresh, new biscuit that, along with the honor of sitting on his lap while she ate it, soothed Rosie completely. More than one person in their area sighed in relief. Sherlock hugged her to him, patting her curls, and caught John shaking his head at him.

“What?” He supposed John didn’t approve of the extra biscuit, but really. Rosie’s happiness depended on it. Anyone could have seen that. Why spoil what had thus far a perfect day with the utter disappointment of a floor-dropped biscuit? 

“I never thought you’d be like this.”

“Like what?”

“This. With Rosie. I didn’t think you were a kid-person, but you’re…good with her.”

“Hardly difficult. She’s a wonderful child.”

“You really don’t mind?”

“Mind what?”

“Always taking her with us? Her…being here? In general?”

Sherlock frowned. “Why would I mind?”

“I dunno.” John shrugged. “Having her around might drag you down? Mess things up? I know you’re used to being on the go, cases at all hours of the night and day. It’s why I didn’t think it was a good idea for us to move in. The flat wasn’t exactly the perfect place for a child-“

“I’ve baby-proofed everything.” Sherlock protested, stung. He had watched how-to videos and read all the articles he could find. He’d done a good job. “If there’s something I’ve missed-“

“No! You’ve done…it’s been perfect. Sherlock. Really. Rosie’s completely safe in the flat. I’m not even worried about that. That’s what I mean. I’ve never seen you like this with children. You’ve never been horrible to them or anything. Just. Not seen you close to them either.”

“Rosie isn’t just any child, John. She’s your child. How could I not love her?”

John gave him an unfathomable look from across the table, tension unexpectedly bleeding through their happy atmosphere without warning. Sherlock didn’t know what he’d done, what he had said which had ruined the mood. Panicking, he rushed to fix it.

“Of course, if she keeps insisting we watch the Rapunzel movie, I may recant that statement but…” Sherlock smiled, deprecating, and John smiled back, but it was strained and they spent the rest of their small meal in silence.


	8. Day 8- Snow Angels

Once they left the café, there was still a little daylight left so before starting for home, they all trooped back across the road to the park where a steady stream of people were leaving as the temperature dropped and the sun dipped below the horizon. Sherlock, John, and Rosie ambled down the icy-slick paved pathways, with no real goal in mind but aimlessly heading toward the frozen lake. They passed couples and families walking briskly, huddling together, pink-cheeked and happy, cold but jubilant. Their own small group was silent. A pall had fallen over them since the café and Sherlock was helpless to fix it.

The sun was setting behind the buildings, throwing the park into semi-darkness, and the wind had picked up. Snow swirled through the air, tiny flakes fluttering from the grey clouds above, promising another few inches through the night. The flakes settled in Sherlock’s hair and clung to John’s jacket and soon they were both damp and cold, the borrowed warmth from the café forever gone. There were no ducks at the lake and nothing else that held any interest for them. Rosie started to get fussy, tired, and John was just suggesting they leave when Sherlock distracted her by making snow angels.

He laid down in the snow, arms and legs akimbo, and moved them back and forth rapidly to clear the snow beneath, then he leapt up, dusted himself off, and pointed to the outline. “See, Rosie? Angel.”

Rosie peered at the outline, glancing up at Sherlock with a sly grin…then trotted through his perfect snow angel, kicking up the snow with evident glee.

“Rosie!” John started forward to get her. “Sorry, she’s-“

“It’s fine.” Sherlock waved John away. “She loves destroying my creations. She’s very adept at it.”

Sherlock made a few more snow angels and Rosie kept destroying them, but eventually, she got bored of annihilation and started making her own. She threw herself to the snow and waved her little arms and legs awkwardly, not really grasping the concept of fine motor control yet, but what she lacked in precision she made up for in enthusiasm. The result was more of a snow circle, than an angel. It was the thought that counted, Sherlock told her, and since each snowflake was different, of course snow angels would be too.

Rosie’s spirits were bolstered.

Soon, they had an untidy row of little snow angels ranged up the path which Rosie was careful not to walk across. Instead, she scampered around them to admire her handiwork from every angle, laughing and pointing out the best ones. John watched the them from a nearby park bench, hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket in an attempt to keep warm, even though the metal of the bench was freezing his arse. His ankle hurt worse than he’d admit to Sherlock, but he didn’t want Sherlock to know he’d been right. Especially since Sherlock had said John “might” be right back at the café. John had principles.

Besides, he wasn’t in the mood for a row with Sherlock that moment. John hadn’t been lying earlier: it had been a great day. They’d all had fun together. Rosie had been a darling. Sherlock happy. John hadn’t been angry once. They’d had a good, warm meal. Nicely brewed coffee. Back at the flat, a warm fire was waiting, with snug socks- a past Christmas present from Mrs. Hudson- and a large selection of takeaway menus from which they could choose something good to eat for supper. Life was good.

Or it would be good, John amended, if his mind weren’t full of so many conflicting emotions that he didn’t know where to begin unraveling it all.

The first thing bothering John was that he hadn’t thought about Mary all day. Not even once. Mary had been his wife. She hadn’t been dead a full year yet. There hadn’t been enough time for the grass to fully grow back over her grave. And she hadn’t crossed John’s mind at all.

And actually, if John were being honest, he hadn’t thought of Mary very seriously in weeks. He was wrapped up in Sherlock, like he had been years ago, and like he had been even when he was with Mary. Mary herself had insinuated the same. More than once.

_“Running off with Sherlock again for a date?”_

_“Oh, late night Chinese? Might’ve called and let me know…but I guess Sherlock was too much of a distraction.”_

_“The way you talk about him it’s almost like he’s your girlfriend, John. Or I guess boyfriend.”_

_“You’re not attached at the hip, you know. Sherlock can go places without you.”_

_“You’re not the only person in Sherlock’s life. He has others.”_

She always smiled to take the sting out of her words, but John had seen the irritation tightening the corners of her eyes, the bitchiness beneath the thin veneer of civility. She hadn’t liked it.

He couldn’t blame her.

It bothered John that he wasn’t thinking of Mary as much as he used to. She deserved better than that. Her memory deserved better. He’d loved her. Or thought he loved her. Or loved her as much as he could love someone who wasn’t Sherlock sodding Holmes.

And there it was: his second huge fucking problem, John thought rather angrily. He wasn’t supposed to be in love with Sherlock. It was ridiculous. Impossible. Illicit.

He was though. Irrevocably. Hopelessly and completely.

John watched Sherlock run after Rosie, his dramatic coat swishing behind him, the sound of Rosie’s giggles sweet and pure mixing with Sherlock’s deeper, baritone laughter which tugged at something low in John’s gut.

He was in love with Sherlock and it was a goddamn bitch of a situation. It was fucked up on so many different levels.

It had all been so simple before Sherlock “died.” He and Sherlock been friends with Something Unspoken between them, something with purpose and meaning that sweetly colored their every interaction and they danced around each other with the promise of Maybe One Day. Not like now.

That Something Unspoken hadn’t ripped and tore at him, snarling teeth gnawing his bones and tearing what felt like strips of flesh from his hide while he fractured and broke every time he thought about Sherlock. John felt like he was being slowly destroyed with every breath he took.

“Fuck.” John leaned forward on the bench, propping his elbows on his knees and taking deep, steadying breaths. Cold air slapped his cheeks as the wind picked up more, howling through the trees lining the little lake. They’d have to go home soon.

Home.

That word always meant 221B. John’s room at the top of the stairs, the smells of Sherlock’s experiments and chemicals, violin music at all hours, takeaway dinners together, crime and excitement, sharing morbid humor, watching telly and deductions, arguing over silly things, Sherlock stealing John’s laptop, guns and spies, a skull on the mantle. Home.

John may have been back home but nothing was the same. It hadn’t been the same since Sherlock returned. Sherlock had came back, back from the dead, and John was already with Mary and he’d planned his future with her and he was just. So. Fucking. Angry at Sherlock and he felt so betrayed but he still loved him and Sherlock was still Sherlock, wonderful and mad, and everything was happening so fast and John couldn’t control it and-

_“Do you understand?”_

Sherlock had taught John how to dance before his wedding to Mary. They’d closed the curtains, shut the world out, and danced in the dark. The first few days, John had deluded himself into thinking everything was okay. Sherlock was just a friend doing a favor for him and they were best mates and when he married Mary Sherlock would be his best man, and John could make a little joke about Sherlock teaching him to dance, everyone would laugh, and it’d all be fine. The last day, everything had changed.

_“Do you understand?”_

The wedding had been days away. And John had understood. It was as if Sherlock had looked into John’s mind and deduced what he was thinking like he’d done so many times before. John finally understood. So much that had never fit quite right slotted into place that afternoon with a relieved uniformity when he was dancing with Sherlock. Things which had been nebulous and vague, things John had tried to avoid confronting or thinking about for years, suddenly all made sense.

_“Do you understand?”_

He was in love with Sherlock. He’d always been in love with Sherlock. He thought that was gone after Sherlock died, then returned. It hadn’t. He’d been deluding himself. It had never gone away. It never would. He was in love with Sherlock. He was marrying Mary in 3 days. They were building a life together and Sherlock…

“I think you understand.” Sherlock said, so simply. John’s whole world had tipped sideways. He stumbled away from Sherlock, from the heat of his body and those eyes which saw too much, always saw too much. He’d stared at him from across the room. Sherlock had looked so confused and hurt. A part of John wanted to go back and kiss Sherlock and say he was never leaving again.

Another part of John got _angry_. Couldn’t he have anything that was his own? Even his private thoughts weren’t his own because Sherlock would fucking deduce those too. He had no right. Sherlock had left him, deliberately. He’d let John think he was dead for years and John would be damned if he crawled right back to him…to do what? Live with him and pretend things were fine? Pine from afar and be laughed at by everyone while he chased after Sherlock through London? What did Sherlock have to offer him that Mary couldn’t?

Nothing, John had decided. Nothing. He had left, irritated and a coward, and gotten married. It had been one of the worst mistakes of his life.

“Da!”

“I see, Rosie!” John called, forcing a smile, and he saw Sherlock hesitate, before joining Rosie back in her play. The last couple of years had been too hectic. Too much had happened. Marriage, a baby, Sherlock being shot, finding out it was Mary who’d shot him. Mary, who was a former assassin masquerading as a normal person, trying to forgive her, working on their marriage, trying to parent Rosie, Sherlock killing someone to protect Mary.

John closed his eyes. Those weren’t even the difficult parts.

The difficult parts started with Mary leaving and John being glad. Over-fucking-joyed. Even now, a year later, John’s relief that Mary had left twisted his insides into a confusion of guilt. He’d been so happy she was gone. It had made everything easier. If Mary were gone, John could move on. He wouldn’t have to keep pretending to work on their marriage even though they both knew it was failing. John wouldn’t have to pretend he was in love with Mary, that he enjoyed being a father, that everything in their home was fantastic and weren’t they such a lovely couple in love? It could all end.

They’d tracked her down, though. Sherlock had lead the search, tireless.

Sherlock and Rosie moved further away, around the little lake, Sherlock clearly intent on showing Rosie something and she jogging behind as quickly as she could. John stood from the bench and followed at a slower pace, dragging his feet through the snow, mounding it up in front of him.

Sherlock had been obsessive about finding Mary. If it hadn’t annoyed him, John would have been touched at Sherlock’s determination to find his wife. He knew Sherlock would do anything to preserve John’s marriage, even things John himself didn’t want to do.

Sherlock had found Mary. They’d brought her home. She’d fallen back into her normal life with a satisfied smile, as if nothing had happened.

John had hated her.

Then, she was dead.

He didn’t blame Sherlock for Mary’s death. That’s what he’d said, but he didn’t. John blamed himself. He hadn’t wanted Mary. He hadn’t been happy with her. He had known, for a long time, that he shouldn’t have married her. And he’d thought, after she was dead, that he could have done more to protect her, that somehow, through his inaction and coldness, he had contributed to her death by being so uncaring. If he’d loved her more, like he was supposed to, maybe she wouldn’t have put herself in that situation. Maybe if John hadn’t loved Sherlock so much Mary wouldn’t have risked her life for him.

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

It had been easier to blame Sherlock. Which was another thread in the knotted tangle.

“Look, Rosie! There’s Daddy. See? Over there…?”

“Dadada!” Rosie called across the lake, delighted with the open space between them and the way her voice echoed. John waved to her and she grinned happily before throwing herself at Sherlock knelt in the snow beside her. He caught her effortlessly and stood, spinning her up into the air. Her giggles pealed through the frozen air like bells. Sherlock spun them fast, his feet turning quickly in the snow, holding tight to Rosie’s hands as she screamed with joy.

Sherlock on drugs, nearly killing himself. Calverton Smith. Sherlock in hospital, beaten and bruised because John had done that. John had been to blame for that too. He was to blame for all of it. He’d hit Sherlock. Kicked him. Fucking beat him. People didn’t do that to the person they were supposed to love.

So there it was, John thought grimly. It didn’t matter that he was in love with Sherlock because what sort of love was that? What did John have to offer Sherlock?

Nothing.

They had this, what they currently had. They were living together again and repairing their friendship. Things weren’t easy, but not bad either. The Something Unspoken that ripped and tore at John when he was around Sherlock, and thought about him at night, was sometimes less vicious.

Sherlock and Rosie were making their way back to John around the lake, Sherlock carrying Rosie who looked exhausted. John stopped and waited for them. They needed to get home. It was dark. Streetlights were coming on. The moon was out, competing with the city lights for dominance. The snow had picked up too, fat flakes pattering to the ground and covering everything in a wet layer. They could go home, John assured himself, smiling at the sight of Sherlock and Rosie coming to him. They could go home and warm up, have a meal together, and be at peace. That was what he wanted.

“Nice conditions for snow angels, eh?”

John jerked around, startled from his thoughts. An old couple stood nearby on the path, arm-in-arm, smiling pleasantly. The little old woman held an umbrella to protect them from the snow, a shopping bag dangling from one arm.

“Sorry?”

“Your husband and daughter. Making snow angels.” The woman repeated, nodding to Sherlock and Rosie. “We were watching them earlier. It’s a nice evening for it, isn’t it? Conditions just right.”

“Uh…Yeah. Yeah it is.” John smiled at them. They seemed sweet. The old man covered his wife’s hand with his glove and it looked like she was wearing his scarf. “She’s a gorgeous little girl.” John nodded. Rosie was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. “Thank you.”

They all looked back to where Sherlock and Rosie were making snow angels again and John’s heart lurched happily. It would make the perfect picture, if he took his phone out-

“And your husband seems like such a good father.”

“Oh.” John started. “Um, no. No- that’s. We’re just friends. He’s my flatmate. We’re not partners. He’s not Rosie’s father.”

“Oh. Sorry, love.” The woman said, looking chagrined. “I just thought…”

“No. Yeah. It’s fine. Really. I…” John shut himself up, clenching his jaw. He already wanted to take back what he’d said. It didn’t matter if people thought Sherlock was Rosie’s father. Sherlock was just as much a father to Rosie as John was, some days more so, and if people wanted to think they were together…

The couple apologized again, abashed, and John nodded, not trusting himself to respond, before moving away, back to enjoying their nighttime stroll while John’s whole night collapsed.

What did it matter if people thought Sherlock was Rosie’s father, John fumed. Why the hell did he have to act like such a moron? Sherlock took such good care of Rosie. He loved her, changed her nappies, fed her, played with her. He’d turned the flat and his life upside down to make Rosie and John happy and now he was trying to give her good memories for Christmas and all John could say was-

_Goddammit_.

Was he ever going to stop making mistakes?

* * *

 

One of the inherent properties of snow was that it naturally amplified sound. Most people didn’t know that. Sherlock had done an experiment when he was a child to determine just how far music would travel and from what distance over time during snowfall based on various depths. The acoustics were profoundly different when the ground was covered in a layer of snow and sound, Sherlock had discovered, traveled much farther.

“Ready to go back?” John asked, smiling up at him and Rosie, but Sherlock found that he couldn’t smile back. Not anymore.

“Rosie’s getting tired.” He said instead to mask his emotions, handing her to John- John was her father, after all, not him- ignoring the pang in the pit of his stomach when their hands touched as they passed her off, missing the weight of her small body once John had her again.

“You all right?” John peered up at him, concerned, and Sherlock abruptly turned away.

“Fine.”

It had not, Sherlock realized as they crunched through the snow, each step reminding him of his snow-sound experiment, been a great day after all.


	9. Day 9- Fireplace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this one earlier than normal because I will be out and about all day today. It's midnight my time, so technically it is the 9th :D

It was after midnight before they were all settled back at the flat. Changing out of their wet clothes and into warm, dry ones took a long time, then arguing over where to order takeaway from, and stoking the fire to a roaring blaze took even longer. While they waited, Rosie opened the next door in her Christmas advent which turned out to be a tiny, plastic, glittery ring. When a small button on the side was pushed, it flashed violent purple/white colors. Rosie solemnly let Sherlock slip the ring on her finger and show her how it worked, then squealed in delight at the lights. She spent the rest of the evening twirling in front of the fire in her purple princess pajamas, admiring her extravagant jewelry, and cried when John tried to make her stop and eat when the food arrived.

“All right.” He said, giving up and letting Rosie skip happily away. “But come here for a bite first.”

Rosie dutifully took a bite of noodles from John’s plate, then pranced back to the fireplace, pressing the button on her ring so she looked like a whirling disco ball. John called her over every few minutes for another bite of food, and in that way, over the course of an hour, managed to get her to eat a reasonable portion. John was so distracted feeding her, he didn’t notice that Sherlock was silent as he only poked at his own plate, moving the food from one side to the other. The succulent, rich noodles stuck in his throat and the chicken tasted like lead. Sherlock watched Rosie from the corner of his eyes but even her happiness couldn’t cheer him up.

By the time the last plate had been cleared and John was bathing Rosie, she was exhausted, nodding off in the tub. She started crying as John washed her hair, only wanting to go upstairs and sleep and not understanding why her comfy daddy wouldn’t leave her alone. John scrubbed her skin dry with a towel, put her in a fresh nappy, and redressed her in the purple pajamas. He laid her down still crying, snugging her in bed with layers of blankets and her favorite toys. Her fussing tapered off, and she was asleep, her thumb jammed in her mouth, before the light was turned off. John sighed in relief.

He plodded down the stairs, tired and warm, stuffed full and relaxed. His worn pajamas were comfortable, the t-shirt threadbare and the flannel bottoms worn, but so cozy. The thick socks slid just a bit on the stairs- they were made of some odd fabric Mrs. Hudson had found and neither John or Sherlock had had the heart to tell her were hideous- and John found himself smiling. It was the best he’d felt in a long time. He was just…happy.

All the lights were off except Sherlock’s Christmas lights and the Christmas tree itself, ornaments sparkling as the lights caught them. The sitting room glowed with the multicolored lights as the fire cast dancing shadows on the walls, cracking and popping hypnotically. Sherlock himself was softly playing some sort of lullaby on his violin, swaying in time with the music in front of the windows. It was a peaceful melody, soft and quiet. Perfect for their evening.

It felt like any other night from years ago. They’d spent all day out, running around London, and now they could relax, muscles deliciously weary, and enjoy themselves.

Except now there was a baby monitor- John set it on the end table- and a baby upstairs. John had been married and now his wife was dead. Oh, and he had unreasonably blamed Sherlock for it.

Aside from that though…

John sat in his chair with a groan, taking the weight off his sore ankle. He propped it up on a nearby footstool with a wince he hoped Sherlock didn’t see. Sherlock didn’t seem to notice. He didn’t stop playing either, didn’t give any sign that he knew John was in the room at all. It was a clever ruse, and one that would have worked years ago. John knew Sherlock was aware of him, had heard him coming down the stairs and probably knew exactly which t-shirt he’d put on, but John took advantage of the disregard and watched him play.

Sherlock was beautiful. Bloody tall with the same fluffy schoolboy curls he’d had when they first met. His body was all graceful lines and smooth, fluid movements. John followed Sherlock’s slow progress from one flickering window to the next, his dressing gown swaying gently as he stepped, the fabric pulled tight across the shoulders, drawing John’s eyes to the width of them, the strength laying beneath the surface. Not for the first time, John wondered what it would be like to slip the posh dressing gown from Sherlock’s shoulders and undress him, one piece at a time, kissing every blessed inch of skin as he revealed it. What would Sherlock say? How would he react? Would he know what John was doing, what he wanted, or would he look at him in confusion? John didn’t know, and he thought that was probably why he spent so much time obsessing over it.

He sighed. The mood of the night was getting to him. He didn’t need to be thinking things like that anyway. Wasn’t going to happen.

It was late. John’s own eyelids were heavy. When he leaned his head back, he was so comfortable he thought about sleeping downstairs instead. Just for the night. He had the baby monitor if Rosie woke up and needed him. He’d done it, back in the day, more than once. When he’d been too tired to make it up the stairs after chasing Sherlock all through London. He smiled, remembering how on those nights Sherlock had played his violin too and-

“That chair will be hell on your back.”

John’s eyes snapped open. Sherlock had stopped playing his violin.

“What?”

“That chair will be hell on your back.” Sherlock repeated. “You plan to sleep down here tonight, but if you sleep in that position, in that chair, your back will be cramped by in the morning.”

“Mm. You’re probably right. Old men can’t kip in chairs.”

“You’re hardly old, John.” Sherlock chided and John chuckled ruefully.

“I’ve got more grey hairs than…than….” He trailed off. “Not sure where I was going with that. Another example of me being old. Anyway. I’ve got lots of grey hair. Wrinkles. A bad back…”

“You’ve been lucky if that’s all you can complain about.” Sherlock said quietly, settling in his chair across from John. “Not everyone is so lucky.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Sherlock.” John blurted rashly, and he didn’t know if it was the low lights, the general mood, or the way he’d been thinking of Sherlock earlier…but he felt compelled to say: “I was wrong to ever think that about you.”

“What?”

“Mary. Her death.” John didn’t know why he’d suddenly said it, but there it was, the ugly truth laying between them like something putrid. He had to excise this wound between them. He had to repair what he’d broken. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Sherlock shook his head in denial and John could visibly see him marshaling his argument, gathering all the information and the thoughts aligning themselves in his head, skewed events flickering through his eyes, each more painful than the next. “John-“

“No. Sherlock. I…there’s no excuse for me blaming you like I did. There’s none. I’ve tried to justify it to myself. Explain it away. But.” Words failed him. He wasn’t good at this sort of thing. His family had never been big on talking about their feelings. They were more of a ‘hard slap on the back when they hugged’ family. Emotions were for funerals or in private. It had driven Mary up the wall that John wouldn’t even try.

“I can’t.” John said, leaning forward in a rush. Sherlock watched him, eyes wide. “I can’t justify it, Sherlock. It was a selfish, rude…ungrateful…shit thing to do. Any adjective you want to give it. That’s what it was. Especially to you. You didn’t deserve that. You’d never deserve that. Mary’s death wasn’t your fault.”

“It…wasn’t?” Sherlock asked slowly. “You…really believe that?”

“No, it wasn’t. And yes…yes, I do.” Sherlock had to believe him, John thought desperately. He had to. Sherlock wasn’t giving any indication that he did, though. He was still blank, blinking rapidly at him and John was forcibly reminded of the afternoon he’d asked Sherlock to be his best man, and Sherlock’s surprise that John had chosen him.

_“I’m your best-“_

_“Man.”_

_“Friend?”_ Sherlock’s incredulity, the utter skepticism that John thought of him in such a way had broken John’s heart.

_“Of course…of course, you are. You’re…you’re my best friend.”_

The words John had been thinking all day sprung to his mouth and only the knee-jerk panic of actually saying them kept it inside. It was a close thing. He swallowed thickly, gripping his hands together, and tried again.

“No. It wasn’t your fault. How could it have been? I…I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked rapidly between each of John’s own, deducing the truth which John knew was there. His brow lowered. He opened his mouth. Took a breath. Closed it again. His frown deepened. The fast blinking was back again. John knew he was being deduced. He wondered what Sherlock was seeing.

Could he see the truth, that Mary’s death had never been his fault? Could he see John’s guilt, not just over that, but his own guilt over Mary’s death and how he wasn’t even sorry? Or could he see how John felt about him? It felt large, writ for all the world to see. Surely the world’s only consulting detective could parse that out.

“You don’t need to apologize to me.” Sherlock finally said. “It was perfectly natural of you to-“

“Yes. I do need to apologize.” For a lot of things. “And no it fucking wasn’t _natural_ -“

“If I hadn’t antagonized the woman…said the things I did. You’ve always said…” Sherlock waved his hand. “I was showing off. Proving how clever I was. Maybe if I hadn’t. Maybe if I had acted quicker. Solved the case sooner-“ 

"No. None of that.” Reckless adrenaline surged in John’s veins, sharply narrowing his vision, and before he thought of it, he was up and out of his chair, on his knees on the floor, between Sherlock’s legs. His hands gripped Sherlock’s knees as if with just the strength of his hands, he could convince Sherlock to believe him. Sherlock had gone very still under John’s hands. He was blinking rapidly again. John didn’t take that as a good sign.

“ _Please_. Sherlock. Believe me.” John sounded like he was begging. He didn’t care. That was exactly what he was doing. “Mary’s death wasn’t your fault. Sherlock. There was nothing you could have done- ever- to prevent it. Mary…Mary chose what she wanted to do. Always. It was always her way. She planned everything six months in advance, a year, probably more. Look how we tracked her down last year, all the different aliases and spots and… She knew. She made her choice. You didn’t make it for her. And…” John faltered, staring up into Sherlock’s eyes, his next admission giving him pause. Sherlock wouldn’t think he was a terrible person. Would he?

“And if it was between you and Mary…in that aquarium…and I could have only saved one of you…I would have chosen you.”

“I…don’t…” Sherlock tilted his head to the side, tightly closing his eyes as if visual stimuli was too much as he seemingly tried to solve the puzzle John had given him. “That’s not…”

John leaned forward, even closer, and cupped Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock’s eyes startled open. John didn’t think Sherlock was even breathing. Sherlock had gone still under his hand, totally frozen. John could feel the prickles of Sherlock’s stubble on his palm, the line of his jaw, even- he fancied- the pulse of Sherlock’s heart. It was too fast, fluttering and panicked. Or maybe that was John’s own, trying its best to beat its way out of his chest because this was the most daring thing he’d ever fucking done.

“I would have chosen _you_.” John repeated firmly. “Do you understand?”

Sherlock’s lips parted, surprised, and John’s eyes dropped to stare at them from inches away. They were chapped from being out in the cold, pink and slightly rough. John wanted to run his tongue across them, hear Sherlock gasp in surprise, before licking his way into Sherlock’s mouth and kissing him. He settled for delicately tracing the outline of them with his thumb and he felt, rather than saw, Sherlock shudder.

Dear fucking god.

“I think you understand.” John whispered and Sherlock stared at John in bewilderment.

“John?”

His was voice was breathy. Unsteady. It provoked an instant, visceral reaction because how many times had John thought about how Sherlock would sound, how he would look? And now here he was, hearing Sherlock’s shaky breaths and god, the way Sherlock said his name was the best sound he’d ever heard.

John leaned forward, hoping he wasn’t reading this wrong- and saw with profound relief Sherlock tentatively mirroring him, his eyes flicking back and forth between John’s own, as if he was just as unsure. John was still cupping Sherlock’s cheek and he carefully angled his head, slowly closing the small distance between them, giving Sherlock plenty of time to understand what he was about to do and all the time in the world to pull away.

He didn’t.

Heart pounding, throat dry, sweat prickling along his forehead, John softly, with the barest pressure, kissed Sherlock. As soon as their lips made contact, Sherlock took a shuddering inhale and the sound of it, the feel of his lips parting so easily beneath John’s, welcoming, inviting, made John want more. Please god, more. Press closer, deepen the kiss, and Sherlock met him, scooting to the edge of his seat, grasping at John’s shoulders, pulling him closer and John slid his fingers from Sherlock’s cheek into the riot of his hair-

“ _Da_!” Rosie’s hoarse cry resonated from the baby monitor, the speaker crackling as her voice grew louder, distressed, crying for all she was worth. John and Sherlock broke apart, breathing heavily as if they’d been running.

“Da!” Rosie screamed again and John stood and rushed toward the sound of his daughter- but he stopped and turned back to Sherlock, dithering in the doorway.

“Sherlock…I…” What could he say? What was there to say?

“Go to her, John. She needs you.” Sherlock said quietly, staring at the space on the floor John had just vacated. He wasn’t doing the quick blinking thing again, which John took as a good sign. John knew he needed to go. Rosie sounded so upset and he didn’t like the sound of her cries, congested and husky, like she couldn’t get enough air. She’d probably gotten sick from being outside for so long today...but he couldn’t just leave Sherlock. There was so much to say.

“I-“

“Go, John.”

“Just…don’t stay up too late.”

“I won’t. Give Rosie my love.”

* * *

 

Later that night, John lay awake in bed, cuddling a very sick little girl, staring up at the ceiling, his mind weighted with heavy thoughts.

Downstairs, unbeknownst to him, Sherlock was stretched on the sofa, staring at the ceiling where he knew John was, similarly occupied.


	10. Day 10- Snowed In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: mentions of past violence/torture/rape. Nothing graphic, but it's there.
> 
> Also, I won't be posting tomorrow the 11th. This chapter is 7k words. It was a behemoth to write and I need a little break. I will return the 12th with daily updates.

The sound of Sherlock’s violin playing an upbeat, cheery Christmas melody poured up the stairwell and seeped through the floorboards of John’s bedroom. His room was right over the sitting room, and sound traveled well, if a little muffled. The distance softened the tones and filled the room with soft, happy strains. Never too loud or screechy, perfect for a cozy winter day.

Rosie lay on John’s bed, red-faced, red-nosed, and miserable. She’d cried herself out earlier and now she was limp, sniffling and trying to sleep, but too unhappy to drift off. She breathed through her mouth, huffing every once in a while to draw attention to herself so her daddy would know she still didn’t feel well. All her favorite toys were scattered around her on the bed, covering the floor, and spilling off her own bed across the room. Books were piled up where John had started reading them and then discarded them as, one-by-one, they failed to hold her attention or make Rosie feel better.

It was just a little cold. John knew that. He still wasn’t prepared for how helpless he felt, seeing Rosie sick. Children got sick all the time. He was a doctor. He saw their parents drag them into the surgery, snotty nosed and whining, and he tsked over their symptoms, told them to brace up, prescribed some medicine, assured the parents they’d feel better in a few days, and that was that.

This situation was different though. This was his child. Rosie didn’t deserve to be sick.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” John felt Rosie’s warm forehead. No change. She whimpered, squinching up her face like Sherlock did when John was being particularly annoying, and fussed, pushing his hand away. “We shouldn’t have stayed out so long in the cold, yesterday. This is my fault.”

John knew she didn’t understand, but it made him feel better to admit it. He should have bundled her up better and they shouldn’t have stayed out so late. He should have gotten her into a warm bath straightaway when they got home instead of letting her play in her wet things. Any other parent would have known to do that.

John slumped, defeated, and stared unseeingly at the window. The pane was thick with frost. Snow had piled up on the sill overnight, the flurries from last night dumping a few more inches on the city and turning everything outside white. The last he’d heard, the weathermen were telling people to stay at home, stay indoors, and keep warm. The roads were almost impassable. There’d been five pile-ups just that morning and now the roads were strangely deserted except for the occasional lone intrepid person trekking through the blizzard.

John had stayed upstairs all morning with Rosie. Ostensibly, he was taking care of his sick child.

In reality, he was hiding. 221B had never felt so small.

After last night, after what he’d done and said- and good god, _wanted_ to do- John didn’t know how to act. He didn’t think Sherlock knew either, which was why Sherlock hadn’t pressed the issue and they hadn’t seen each other all morning. John had gone down a few times to fetch things for Rosie, but each time Sherlock had been in his room, hiding. Since John himself was somewhat hiding, he couldn’t necessarily blame Sherlock. T

hey’d have to talk eventually, though. But…later. John was all talked out after last night. He didn’t know what he would say anyway.

He liked Sherlock. Loved him. He wanted to kiss him some more. But should he? Did Sherlock even want to? What did that mean about how John felt about Mary? Wasn’t it a bit crass to be shacking up with his best friend when his wife hadn’t even been dead a year? God above what would it be like to shack up with Sherlock? John took a deep breath and tried to stop thinking.

“Rosie? Want some more milk?” He turned his attention back to his sick love, who huffed unhappily once she saw her daddy was watching again. “Warmed up?”

Rosie shook her head, then perked up at a sound John couldn’t hear. She leaned up, looking toward the door and as soon as she saw who was standing there, her face crumpled and she started crying pathetically, as if she’d had no comfort all day, reaching out her arms in desperation.

“Daaaa-aaaa-aaaa!”

“Hi.” Sherlock uncertainly stepped into the room, glancing around at the mess. John’s unmade bed, Rosie’s unmade bed, the empty breakfast dishes, Rosie’s toys and books all over the place, Rosie’s flyaway hair, John’s snot-stained shirt. “How’s Rosie?”

“Got a cold.” John managed over Rosie’s cries. He tried to soothe her, but she kept reaching for Sherlock and finally, unable to resist his little darling, Sherlock picked her up, cuddling her beneath his chin. Rosie kept crying, too wretched to stop, but quieted.

John didn’t know what he’d expected when he saw Sherlock after last night, but it wasn’t this. Sherlock was dressed impeccably, like he was going out, dark trousers and starched, posh white shirt buttoned up to his neck with his jacket fastened over the top like armor. John felt dowdy next to him, still in his pajamas, unshaven. He hadn’t even showered. The stiff collar of Sherlock’s shirt brushed the ends of his curls and John remembered running his fingers through those same curls, the softness, the sound of Sherlock sighing into his mouth when he did it-

“What have you given her?” Sherlock asked, drawing John’s attention back to the present.

“Um. Just the children’s medicine we have in the loo.” John flopped over, just as tired as Rosie. More so. He’d been up half the night with her, then rushing around all morning taking care of her. It probably would have been easier to split Rosie’s care with Sherlock, but after last night… Speaking of which, his mind was weary too, he’d been remembering last night all morning, struggling through the mental gymnastics of what this meant, what damage he may have done, where the fuck he went from here.

“Shouldn’t you give her something else?”

“Nothing else to give her. It’s just a cold. It’ll run its course. She’ll be better in a day or two.” Talking was stilted. There was a headache starting behind John’s eyes. Sighing heavily, he pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to alleviate it.

“I wanted to come up and see if she was okay since I haven’t seen you this morning.” Sherlock explained quietly, in a quick, apologetic rush. “I wouldn’t have bothered you if I’d known…I didn’t mean to be a nuisance.”

“What?- No. You’re not a nuisance.” The pounding was getting worse. Christ, he was tired. “Really. You’re not. I’m just. Tired. It’s been a long night. For both of us.” John nodded at Rosie who was somewhat content, slowly being swayed by Sherlock around the room. He moved smoothly, with elegant grace, not something you could always think about a man, John conceded, watching Sherlock’s progress hungrily.

It almost didn’t seem possible, that the posh, bespoke, buttoned-up man in front of him, cool and collected- Sherlock had even styled his hair for godsakes- would let John kiss him. John hadn’t thought it was possible, for Sherlock to respond that way. Not to him. He had responded, though. John knew he had. Stunningly.

_“John.”_

“I could take her.” Sherlock said hesitantly, addressing Rosie’s unmade bed. “Downstairs. If you want.”

The opportunity was too good to pass up. “You don’t mind?”

“No.” Sherlock shook his head, looking somewhere to the right of John as if there were something of interest there. John almost looked- but he knew Sherlock was avoiding him. He hadn’t looked at John once since he’d came up. John hadn’t been able to stop looking at him.

“Uh. Yeah. Sure, yeah. You can take her downstairs. Here.” He grabbed Rosie’s purple blanket and held it out. “She’ll want that. Save you a trip.”

Sherlock took the blanket, still not looking at John, and then retreated back downstairs.

* * *

 

John thought about taking a nap now that he was free. Rosie was perfectly safe with Sherlock for a few hours. Nothing bad would happen. But when he couldn’t find a comfortable spot on his bed because of Rosie’s toys, he conceded defeat and set to putting things to rights. He jammed what he could into Rosie’s toy box, and stored the rest on the already over-stuffed shelves he’d put up when he moved back in. He flung Rosie’s blankets up untidily, but the bed looked somewhat made so he was fine with it. It was only two steps and John did the same to his own before falling across it with a moan.

It wasn’t an ideal setup, his and Rosie’s room. They were cramped with John’s things, Rosie’s things, each with their own bed…John didn’t know what he’d do when Rosie got older and needed a bigger bed. Maybe move into 221C. The damp wasn’t that bad. He could clean it up nicely. There was one good window to let in sunlight and a nicely fitted up kitchen, nearly new. Mrs. Hudson had had it done months ago, trying to attract new renters. A little cleaning, one of those clever dehumidifier contraptions, and the place would be perfectly livable.

It would be easier, John’s traitorous brain supplied, if you moved downstairs into Sherlock’s room. With Sherlock.

“Yeah right.” John snorted. It wasn’t the first time he’d thought something like that, it’d make all their lives easier in more than one way, but he knew the chances of that happening.

He rolled onto his back, flung out his arms, and sighed deeply. He was going to sleep. No more thinking.

Except…

Sherlock had accepted John’s apology last night. And he’d seemed to understand what John was implying by his speech. He had leaned forward. He’d known John was going to kiss him, and he’d leaned forward. Kissed John back. Pulled John to him and taken gorgeously shaky breaths against John’s mouth.

_“John?”_

“Fucking Christ.” John breathed. He knew he wouldn’t be sleeping now. He ignored the rude hardness in his groin which had set up at the thought of last night and the way Sherlock had breathed his name. Or tried to.

He wasn’t very good at it, because every time he closed his tired eyes, he saw Sherlock’s eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks from inches away as they kissed, remembered the strength of Sherlock’s hands grabbing at him, and fancied- but he could have been imagining it- a rigid line of flesh briefly pressing against his stomach when Sherlock moved closer before they broke apart.

John stared up at the ceiling. He knew he hadn’t imagined it.

“Fuck.” He tilted his head, craning his neck. His bedroom door was closed and Sherlock had Rosie downstairs. No one would know. It didn’t make him feel any less embarrassed. It had been a long time since he’d been with anyone, he argued to make himself feel better, more than a year, even before Mary had left. After she’d shot Sherlock, John’s intimacy with her had taken a sharp nosedive from which it’d never recovered. So maybe he was a bit entitled to feel this way.

John still felt pathetic as he undid his trousers, mortified that he was so randy from just a little kiss. It hadn’t been just a little kiss though, his mind insisted as he slipped his hand beneath his waistband of his pants and touched himself. It had been a fucking amazing kiss, with Sherlock, who had seemed so unexpectedly affected by it.

_“John?”_

“Oh…fuck.”

* * *

 

When John came downstairs an hour later, sheepish and still tired, he found Sherlock and Rosie asleep on the sofa. Sherlock was stretched on his back lengthwise, feet propped on the sofa arm opposite and Rosie lay on her stomach on Sherlock’s chest, her face slack in sleep, covered in her favorite purple blanket. Sherlock’s hand was cupped around the back of Rosie’s head, cradling her, protective even in sleep. A half-empty cup of milk sat on the table and Rosie’s favorite Rapunzel movie played on the telly, volume low so as not to wake her.

John drew up short in the doorway and stared. It was such a…peaceful scene. Sherlock and Rosie, the two hellions who seemed to compete with each other to see who could cause the most chaos, quiet and serene. With the fire crackling and snow outside, the windows all frosted over and them snug and warm inside, it was a pretty family moment.

John lost track of how long he stood there, frozen in the doorway, watching the two most important people in the world to him sleeping, unaware he was there. He wasn’t even thinking clear ideas, just the tangle of emotions which had set up shop in his head since last night, as Sherlock’s even breaths made Rosie rise and fall on his chest and his face looked so delicate and fragile in the afternoon light. Looking at Sherlock and Rosie, John felt calmer than he had all morning, and a few of those tangled emotions suddenly didn’t seem so impossible.

“…all that time, never even knowing…just how blind I’ve been. Now I’m here…blinking in the starlight…Now I’m here, suddenly I see…Standing here, it’s oh so clear, I’m where I’m meant to be…”

John tiptoed to the telly and turned the movie off so they could sleep better, then settled in his chair to use his laptop, maybe respond to a few comments on the blog…but he couldn’t concentrate and kept sneaking glances at the sofa the next few hours.

* * *

 

Sherlock’s eyes slitted open, the barest amount, enough to see John in his armchair, staring at his laptop with a blank expression on his face, before closing them again. Sherlock knew John wasn’t working.

John may think he was asleep, but Sherlock had been awake from the moment John opened his bedroom door, causing Sherlock’s heart rate to jump with anxiety, and came downstairs, his steps slow on the stairs, conveying hesitancy. John had been noticeably slow to come into the sitting room, clearly reluctant to settle so near Sherlock and Rosie.

John was unsure after last night, that much was obvious. Possibly he regretted what he’d done.

Of course he did.

Sherlock didn’t think John regretted what he’d _said_ , though. His apology, the confession, asking Sherlock to believe him when he said that Mary’s death was not his fault, had all been real. Heartfelt. Those words had not been lies.

Sherlock had trouble believing what John said. Not because he distrusted John’s sincerity. John may not hold Sherlock accountable, but Sherlock held himself responsible. He had contributed to Mary’s death in some way. Asking her on cases, bringing her back to London when she would rather have stayed away, or goading Norbury at the end- he had played a part. In some way. But it was soothing, it calmed a part of Sherlock’s mind which he hadn’t known was in chaos, to know John didn’t blame him. John said Mary’s death wasn’t his fault. John believed that, even if Sherlock couldn’t fully.

Sherlock opened his eyes a crack and looked at John again. He was still looking at his laptop, but his hands weren’t moving, and his gaze was vacant. Thinking. Regretting.

Caught up in the moment last night, desperate to make Sherlock believe him, John had made an error in judgment. Maybe he’d thought the best way to convince Sherlock was physically, with affection this time instead of violence, and the affection John was most comfortable with was the sexual.

Or maybe it was because Sherlock was close and available and John craved intimacy. It had always been a favorite pursuit of his. And Sherlock knew it had been an inordinately long time since John had…engaged in that sort of thing.

Sherlock could feel his cheeks heating at the implication of John…doing _that_. He shouldn’t be thinking about John slaking his lust in any way. Those thoughts crept insidiously into Sherlock’s mind, by themselves, at very inappropriate times. It was all Sherlock could think of last night, as his lips tingled from their brief kiss and his body burned after John went upstairs. For the longest time.

Running after Mary, then her death, taking care of Rosie and working- all the events of the past year had left John otherwise preoccupied. And who better, Sherlock supposed, than to settle for what was easy and available: Sherlock himself? Because after their kiss -really in the split second before it happened when Sherlock realized that John was about to kiss him- Sherlock would have given John anything he asked for.

John was still pretending to look at his laptop.

Sherlock remembered the way John’s lips felt, the warmth of his hand cupping his cheek, and the shiver of pleasure down his spine when John’s fingers ran through his hair. Sherlock wouldn’t have stopped John if he’d wanted more. If John had wanted to kiss him harder, undress him, movements quick and hurried, asked Sherlock to touch him which he gladly would have done, even if the skill was unknown to him, take him to the floor or the sofa, and-

John’s partners had had a lot to complain about, but never about John’s skill as a lover. Sherlock was positive he would have enjoyed their congress.

But Sherlock was grateful for Rosie’s interruption because if his first two hypothesizes were wrong, then his third was correct.

What if, after his apology, John had felt so guilty about what he’d done in the past that he’d wanted to make it up to Sherlock? In whatever way he thought Sherlock wanted?

Sherlock’s stomach twisted in sick shame at the idea of John, dreading what needed to be done, kissing him because he felt obligated. John shamming his amorous interest so that Sherlock would be appeased. It made him queasy and flooded his entire body with sharp humiliation.

John hadn’t done it to hurt him. Sherlock knew that. John had politely given Sherlock what he thought he wanted and what he thought would smooth things over between them. And he’d known how much Sherlock wanted it from his reaction, rushing forward into the kiss without any prompting and plastering himself against John without any dignity.

After John’s conversation with the elderly couple in the park, it was the theory which made the most sense. John’s vehement denial that he and Sherlock were a couple, his quick response that no, Sherlock wasn’t Rosie’s father, he was just his flatmate, was further proof. A person who felt genuine sexual affection towards someone wouldn’t say things like that. Sherlock wanted John, but not because he felt sorry for him.

That had to be the reason, Sherlock thought, opening his eyes and unexpectedly meeting John’s from across the room. His stomach jerked in surprise and John looked equally abashed at being caught staring. He flashed a weak smile at Sherlock and hurriedly looked back at his laptop. Sherlock closed his eyes again.

What other explanation was there?

* * *

 

Mrs. Hudson made them all a nice supper since Rosie was sick- all of Rosie’s favorites with a few of the rolls she knew Sherlock liked, and a vegetable dish for John. The snow stopped, but it was still inches deep outside and most restaurants weren’t delivering in the weather. Mrs. Hudson texted that her hip was bothering her too much to bring it up herself- the cold settling in her joints, and anyway she wasn’t their housekeeper- so John went downstairs for the food because Rosie, since waking up, was attached to Sherlock’s side.

“We could come down and all eat together.” John suggested while Mrs. Hudson loaded a bag with all the food. “Be nice. All of us snowed in, maybe watch something on the telly? Good food. Good company.” He appreciated the meal. He hadn’t known what he would fix for supper and honestly, hadn’t felt up to it. It made him feel like an arsehole to take Mrs. Hudson’s food and leave her all by herself downstairs, though.

That, and it would cut the tension in the flat to have someone else between them, a nice distraction.

“That’s all right, dear. I wanted to do something nice for our poor Rosie. She sounded so miserable earlier. Are you giving her anything?”

“The children’s medicine we had in the loo.”

“Oh. Don’t you think you should be giving her something else?”

John accepted the bag of food from Mrs. Hudson and wondered when everyone had started doubting his skills as a doctor.

“But as I was saying. I really don’t mind. I’ve got a…friend…coming over in another half hour.” Mrs. Hudson said evasively. “We’d just be in everyone’s way.”

John’s eyebrows went up. “A friend?”

“Just someone I knew from a few years ago. He’s in town on business and his hotel is just a few streets away. He’s walking over and we’re having dinner.”

“Well. That’s great. Great. We’ll keep it quiet then.”

“Thank you, John.”

“Thanks for the food.” He accepted the bag, heading for the door when Mrs. Hudson noticeably ushered him that way, practically pushing him out. “Really. Didn’t know what I was going to make.” Mrs. Hudson waved away his thanks.

“It was no trouble. I’m happy to help.”

John knew she was trying to get him to leave and he wondered who this “friend” was and if Sherlock knew about them. Not that Sherlock needed to know about every person in his friends lives, but considering who he and Mrs. Hudson picked it, it was rather good to have Sherlock dogging them. “Thanks again-“

“Don’t mention tonight to Sherlock.” Mrs. Hudson said suddenly, clutching John’s arm. “He’s so…well. He’s Sherlock. I want to have a nice evening and I don’t want him down here disturbing everything.”

John nodded. He knew exactly what she meant but felt honor-bound to defend Sherlock. His intentions were, even if his actions weren’t, always good. “He worries.”

“I know he does. And he’s a lovely boy, but when a woman’s my age I don’t need a young man being my nanny.”

“Understood. Not a word.”

“Thanks, John!” Mrs. Hudson sighed happily, her evening squared away and protected from all interference. “It’s so good having you back home again.”

John smiled, uneasy. “Well. It’s good being back home again. There’s been…nowhere else that really felt like home. Except here.”

“What a lovely thing to say.” Mrs. Hudson pulled him into a hug and he patted her back, engulfed in Chanel No. 5 perfume. Very Important Date, then. (He hated that he knew that, remembering the evening Sherlock had spent detailing exactly when and why Mrs. Hudson wore particular brands of perfume. John hadn’t been able to look her in the eyes for weeks after.)

“I’ll bet Sherlock was pleased when you told him that.” Mrs. Hudson released John and straightened her hair, patting at the curls even though they hadn’t moved.

“Mm. Well. I’ve not said that to him…as such.” John assumed Sherlock knew he was happy to be back. Because…well…John had moved back, hadn’t he? He wouldn’t be somewhere he didn’t want to be. Sherlock had deduced that John was happy here. He had to have done.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean. Well. I’ve not said that to him.”

“I think you should. Don’t you?”

John chuckled, shaking his head. “Like we said: he’s Sherlock. I’m sure he knows.”

Mrs. Hudson gave John a stern look, “Does he?” and slammed the door in his face.

* * *

 

They didn’t talk about what had happened, either before or after supper. It wasn’t even vaguely mentioned. Instead, they pretended as if nothing were wrong, sat at the table, and ate together while making forced conversation about anything but what they were each thinking. It was a new form of torture.

Rosie sat on Sherlock’s lap and stole bites from his plate which Sherlock pretended to be surprised by. He bent down, looking for the lost food, scowling, lifting up the plates and checking under napkins, declaring to John that he had no idea where his food had gone. It had just vanished! Rosie wriggled with glee at her own cleverness, giggling every time she stole another bite and got away with it.

After dinner, Rosie opened another door in her advent calendar, excited when her fluffy daddy let her open the tiniest door with a pretty red number on it. Her excitement turned to confusion at what was revealed. She turned the plain piece of paper over in her hands. This wasn’t a toy. And she couldn’t read. Her daddies knew that.

“It says, ‘To a princess.’” Sherlock read to her, pointing at each word individually with his finger. He walked to the mantle where he revealed, with a flourish, the present which had been hiding in plain sight all the while (Rosie being too short to actually see what was on the mantle).

It was a tiara. Silver and elegantly curved, with two rows of clear, white crystals culminating in a cluster of peaked gems in the center bigger than John’s thumb. The gems glittered as if they were real in the low lights of the living room and when Sherlock placed it on Rosie’s head, it slipped over her forehead, as if it had weight.

“Sherlock…” John said slowly, a horrible thought dawning as Sherlock adjusted the tiara. “That’s not…real, is it?”

“Don’t be absurd, John.”

John breathed a sigh of relief.

“Of course it’s real.”

John sank, weak-kneed, into his chair and watched his two-year-old daughter play with a piece of jewelry that looked as if it were worth hundreds of thousands of pounds.

“Do you…I mean. Don’t you think that’s extravagant? For a little girl?”

“Not at all. She looks beautiful in it.”

“That’s not what I meant. It’s not…I dunno. The stolen tiara of the crown princess? Didn’t nick it from the Queen?”

“Well. A _sort_ of queen.” Sherlock adjusted the tiara on Rosie’s head again. It kept slipping down because she couldn’t stop touching it, patting at it with her chubby hands in amazed wonder. Sherlock caught sight of John’s face and sighed, relenting. “Nothing that grand, John, I promise. It’s the tiara of a Moroccan princess. Owed Mycroft a favor ages ago. He’s had it lying around forever, collecting dust.”

“Mm. And he just let you have it?”

“Of course.”

“He doesn’t know it’s gone, does he?”

“I stole it from his house.” Sherlock admitted. “But it looks gorgeous on Rosie and what would Mycroft have done with it? Wear it to work?”

“A tiara’s not really his style, I guess.” John gave Sherlock a sly look. “Tiara’s are more for princesses.”

Sherlock picked up on the joke and smirked. “A proper crown is more his style. Fit for a Queen.”

Rosie didn’t know why her daddies were laughing so hard, but they told her she looked beautiful in her tiara and that was all that mattered. Her fluffy daddy held her up to the mirror so she could admire herself for as long as she wanted and when she paired the tiara with her purple and white ring, Rosie felt like an actual princess.

* * *

 

Mycroft received the picture of Rosie later that night on his phone. She was dressed in her purple princess dress, red nose clashing horribly, with the starrlight tiara perched on her head. She was grinning at whoever was taking the picture, arms raised happily.

Mycroft squinted at the picture. It looked like Sherlock had decorated the flat. There were twinkle lights, and a Christmas tree. Behind Rosie, on the table, were the remains of a large meal. Everyone looked happy and healthy.

Well.

He’d never liked that tiara anyway. Sherlock had known that. The Moroccan princess insulted Mycroft after he helped her, snootily gifting him one of her “lesser tiaras” for his troubles and implying his actions had been “her due” and not a huge headache. It had been too pretty to get rid of, though, and worth enough that Mycroft would have been chagrined by just binning it.

It couldn’t have gone to a worthier young lady, Mycroft decided. Not that he would ever tell Sherlock that.

_She wears it better than I would, I suppose. MH_

* * *

 

Rosie protested being put to bed until Sherlock told her she could wear her tiara. She went without a fuss but once she was asleep, John eased it off, placing the tiara on the bedside table, shaking his head incredulously.

He thought seriously about not going back downstairs and just calling it an early night, but that would make him a coward and probably send the wrong message to Sherlock. It’d make him think that John regretted last night and was purposefully avoiding him, just like he’d done all day. But that wasn’t it at all. John was just…at a fucking loss where to go from here. He hadn’t planned on kissing Sherlock last night, but he _had_ , and he hadn’t thought that Sherlock would kiss him back, but he _did_ and now John was fucked.

But he wouldn’t stay in his room all night like an arse, John decided and squared his shoulders. He would face whatever happened- and what he hoped would happen were more recitations of Sherlock breathing his name in obvious desire.

_“John.”_

It was becoming a nightly ritual for him and Sherlock to sit in the sitting room and be awkward, and since they had so much more to be awkward about that night, John dutifully took his place in his usual chair. Sherlock discovered an old bottle of whiskey in one of the cupboards and he opened it, pouring them both a glass before settling in his own chair, clearly aware of the Required Nightly Awkwardness as much as John and doing his part to keep the tradition alive.

It was horrible.

“Where'd you get this?” John finally asked, breaking the silence. The fire threw flickering lights around the room and gave them something to look at besides each other, and when that failed there were the windows, the Christmas tree, the bookshelf. Anywhere besides where they actually wanted to look.

What could John say? “Listen, Sherlock, I don’t know why I kissed you last night but it was really fucking nice and you seemed to enjoy it and I’d like to do it again. Probably more but let’s see where the night takes us. Yeah? Okay with you?” John snorted and took a long sip of his whiskey.

“I don’t know.” Sherlock said. “A client, I suppose. Payment for a job well done.”

“Mm. A client before…before you left?” That was the best way John could phrase it and Sherlock held his glass up to the firelight, inspecting the liquid with a keen eye.

“Yes. Probably.”

John grunted. He took another sip. The liquor scored like fire down his throat, but it warmed his belly and gave him the courage to ask his next question, seizing on the topic with something akin to desperation. “You know…speaking about that. Before. I never asked you about what happened. When you were away.”

Sherlock’s only reply was to take a large sip of his own whiskey, throat working, draining the glass.

“I’m sorry about that, you know. Just. For the record. I should have asked…but then after a while…it seemed sort of stupid to ask once you’d been back for so long. And we were going on cases again. Then the wedding. Rosie.” John ticked off the events on his fingers while Sherlock refilled his glass with careful precision. “You getting shot. Magnusson. Mary running off…” If he kept going, John would have to put his whiskey down. He didn’t want to do that so he just stopped counting and took a bracing swig.

“It’s been a busy few years.” Sherlock remarked drily, and John laughed.

“What I’m trying to say is…I should have asked. What happened when you were away. I wanted to know- well, not at first. I didn’t. When you first came back I was mad as hell…you know why?”

“Hm?”

“Because I thought you’d been having a laugh at me the whole time.” John tried to keep his voice casual, but he didn’t think he succeeded. “Stupid John, can’t even see what’s right in front of him.” He stared into his own drink like it held the secrets to his problem, but when he risked a glance at Sherlock, he looked stricken.

“John…I would never-”

“I know. I know that.” John waved his apology aside. “I know that now. I was just…mad. But…I should have asked anyway. After it was all over. I don’t know why I didn’t. Hurt pride, I guess”

“Quite understandable.” Sherlock downed his second glass, wincing, and then fiddled with it, rolling the heavy glass tumbler between his palms.

“So? Want to tell me now?” John asked. ‘What happened when you were away? Perfect place for it- warm, cozy, with drinks by the fire. Nice night for a good story.”

* * *

 

So that was it then. John had kissed him and now he was telling Sherlock, without actually saying the words, that they were moving on from it. It was to be forgotten, as if it’d never happened.

Sherlock was disappointed, but not surprised.

Today had been a nightmare, circling around each other uncomfortably, avoiding each other and pretending everything was fine with fake laughter and smiles. Sherlock thought, once Rosie was put to bed, he would test his hypothesizes, turn off the lights, create the right ambiance, pour them some good liquor, and....see what happened. John was inclined to romance anyway, and if everything were laid out nicely, maybe he would react in a way which would tell Sherlock what he needed to know.

Maybe he would confirm Sherlock’s theories…or maybe he would, against all hope and reason, kiss Sherlock again in the slow, painstaking way he had last night, as if Sherlock… _mattered_ ,

Or Sherlock had expected John to avoid the discussion entirely, but he hadn’t anticipated their conversation going there: to his time away. Sherlock fidgeted with his tumbler, discomfited. There was no reply ready, he was on the back foot, and the alcohol made his brain slow to catch up.

“I want to hear what happened, Sherlock.” John said, taking Sherlock’s silence as reluctance. “I really do.”

He really didn’t.

Sherlock had wanted to tell John about his time away when he first returned. He’d been excited, eager to reveal everything to his conductor of light and be vindicated. Be made to feel, through John’s praise and admiration and, yes, love, that everything he had suffered, everything he had gone through, had been meaningful. It counted. They could go back to their old routine and it wouldn’t matter what had happened to him, it wouldn’t matter about the nightmares and the scars and his new fears because Sherlock would have John again and that had been what he’d always wanted, the whole time he was away. It would have made all of it- _everything_ \- worth it. That had not happened.

“I don’t think you do.” Sherlock replied slowly, trying to think how best to explain, without revealing too much. “It’s…not a conversation for an evening like this. Warm. Cozy, with drinks by the fire.”

It was more a conversation for a therapist, not his best friend who kissed him because he felt sorry for him. If Sherlock told John about his time away, about what happened in Serbia, John would never stop feeling sorry for him. John would probably kiss him again because he felt duty-bound, trying to make up for what happened to Sherlock, and Sherlock didn’t think he had the willpower to stop him, even knowing why John would be doing it. Sherlock’s stomach roiled and he reached for the whiskey bottle again, tipping a healthy amount into his tumbler.

“I bet it is. Come on. You’d love to tell me how clever you were.” John encouraged, leaning forward. It was reminiscent of last night, but this time, Sherlock didn’t mirror him. He stayed where he was, taking a deep sip from his glass.

John wasn’t going to let this go. What was he supposed to tell him?

“All the dangerous missions you went on.” John continued relentlessly. “The puzzles you solved. The lives you saved. I know it’d be amazing, because that’s what you are. Um. But if you want to tell me…I know I can’t type any of it up for the blog, but I’d like to know. Just between me and you.”

The first few months of his mission had been interesting. Working with Mycroft, carefully piecing together intel, planning and orchestrating operations in far-flung locations, adrenaline coursing through his veins from beginning to end and using the entirety of his brain to work his way out of problems. Then, there was the rush of solving the puzzle and knowing he was doing some good in the world, good which he hoped would have a lasting impact.

“I went back, you know, over the news. Once you returned. Just to see if I could parse it out, figure out what you could have been involved in most recently. Mary said I was a nutter, but now I’m wondering if I could hit it right.”

The last mission, Sherlock had been sent to Serbia. It was the last piece of the puzzle. The details were unimportant, but what mattered was that Sherlock had messed up. Badly.

Sherlock’s distress over where their conversation had taken them caused his hands to shake and, not wanting to put the glass down so the contents wouldn’t spill on his clothes, he drained the rest of it.

Captured. Darkness. Ropes. Chains. Pain. Beatings. Endless questions interspersed between the fists. Despair. Figuring out how long he’d been held and calculating how many days it could feasibly take before anyone realized he was gone. Too many. Trying to escape. Unsuccessful. Then, more pain.

Sherlock had been resolute.

“I didn’t do anything clever, John.” Sherlock confessed. “Nothing. And that, from me, is saying something.”

And when pain and starvation didn’t work, there was always the predictable method of extracting information captors naturally fell back on.

“I don’t believe that.” John chuckled, shaking his head, still smiling, oblivious to Sherlock’s mounting agony. “There’s no way. You, not be clever? May as well say the sun won’t come up tomorrow.”

Sherlock didn’t know if that was meant to be a compliment or not. It hadn’t sounded like one, but then again his body was starting to feel a bit…loose. The alcohol’s warming effects extending through his limbs cloyingly and coloring his reason.

He didn’t want to have this conversation with John. Not now. Not tonight. Not ever, especially after John’s obligatory kiss. He reached for the bottle again, knowing full well what he was doing, and poured another few fingers, topping off John’s glass when he reached it over. “

You were working for Mycroft. I know that much, remember. So you were probably taking down minor governments, that sort of thing? Top-level secrets. Dashing around being smart and saving the world?”

Sherlock shook his head, irritated. Why couldn’t John take the hint? What did John want from him? A full confession of how long he’d been held? On what day the whippings had started? How they’d taken turns? His second failed rescue and the laughter when he was returned? The loving epithets they’d given him? How Mycroft finally managed to find him? The way Mycroft pretended everything was fine but wouldn't look at him the longest? The injuries which took weeks to heal before he was able to “come back” to him?

Sherlock said none of this out loud. He gripped his glass until his knuckles turned white, swallowed nervously, and tried to think of something. He didn’t want John to know. “Not exactly.”

“Then what was it?”

“Moriarty.” The word sounded odd when he said it. Sherlock saw John glance at the glass in his hand, then at the bottle on the table beside him, frowning.

“Sherlock-“

“It was Moriarty.” Sherlock tried again, enunciating clearly. “Drug cartels. Human trafficking. Shady regimes. It was to take down his…web.”

“You said that. When you came back. Moriarty had to be stopped, or something like that.” John set his own glass on the table and scooted forward. “Listen. I think you’ve had enough to drink. I should have stopped you two glasses ago but…Why don’t we go to bed?”

Alone or together? And why did John want him to stop talking, now he was started? Isn’t this what he’d wanted? “It was Moriarty. Took us almost two years, but we ended it.”

John smiled at him, the firelight casting his face in shadows and making his expression soft and achingly beautiful. Sherlock literally felt pain when he looked at him and couldn’t look away.

“See? I knew you did something clever.”

“No, I didn’t.” Sherlock said sharply, setting his glass down on the table with a sharp clank. “Nothing, John. There was nothing that happened that was clever. And there was nothing that happened to me that I want to talk about with you, warm, in front of a fire with good whiskey. _There. Is. Nothing._ ”

John flinched away from the venom in Sherlock’s voice, backing down. “All right. I’m sorry. I just thought... I didn’t mean to press I just…thought you wanted me to ask. I didn’t want you thinking I didn’t care about it or….I dunno. I’m sorry.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath, in through his nose, out through his mouth. His hands were still shaking. This entire night had been a horrible idea. John should have stayed upstairs and he should have been alone down here like he always was and none of this would have happened. He’d caused this himself.

“Sherlock?” John asked tentatively, his voice gentle and soothing, knowing something was wrong but clueless as to what. “Listen…I’m sorry I asked-“

“It’s not your fault, John.” Sherlock said, voice quieter but the syllables were slurred around the edges. “This is my fault. For doing this. Thinking that…” He motioned unsteadily to the now half-empty whiskey bottle.

“Thinking…what?”

“Any of this was a good idea. The fire and the lights.” Sherlock said, finally looking at John who seemed anxious, confused, hand outstretched but not touching him. “I’m going to bed.”

“Sherlock-“

“Goodnight, John.” Sherlock pushed himself out of his chair and didn’t look back as he carefully made his way down the hall, steps uneven. He knew John was behind him, standing at the mouth of the hallway, watching his progress but not follwoing him, and Sherlock closed his bedroom door with profound relief. He turned the lock, not even caring if John heard, and pressed the heels of his shaking hands to his eyes until lights exploded in his vision.

“Fuck.”


	11. Day 11- Quilts

Rosie woke up before anyone else, the bright morning sunshine making her squint and blink sleepily. Her bed was closest to the window and usually she liked that- falling asleep while she could hear cars passing, voices, and see the glow of streetlights. The busy sounds of others living unseen. For some reason, it was comforting and she was glad her daddy let her sleep there. She remembered another bedroom, where she’d slept alone, without her daddy, and without any noise. It had always been too quiet. She’d had a light, an odd half-moon shape that glowed from a corner of her room, but she hadn’t really liked it. Not as much as the brighter streetlamps.

Rosie was cozy and snug. She curled her toes in the warm quilt, then giggled, kicking her legs a few times just because she could. She felt so much better than she had yesterday. She sniffed and smiled when she could breathe out of her nose again. Much better. She ducked beneath the covers, pulling them over her head, and pretended she was an explorer, hidden in a cave. Crabbing down to the end of the bed, then flipping and turning around so she could crawl back up to the top, her hair crackled with static and stuck to her face. That wasn’t pleasant so she tossed off the quilt dramatically, and her eyes landed on her tiara.

It sparkled in the sunshine, the myriad of pretty gems throwing rainbows all around the room, over the walls and ceiling. It looked like something from a fairytale and Rosie gaped at it happily, eyes wandering around the room, enchanted by the display of colors. She bounced lightly on the bed in excitement, wishing her fluffy daddy could see this. Eventually, she grew bored and reached for it, placing the tiara on her head like her daddy had done last night, telling her that she had to be careful not to break it. Rosie didn’t want to break her tiara. That was a very un-princess thing to do.

Thus arrayed, Rosie was ready for the day. She shimmied her way out of bed, feet hitting the floor with a small thud and stood on her tippy-toes to see if her daddy was awake. He was still snoring on his own bed and Rosie hesitated, wondering if he would be mad if she woke him for breakfast. She was hungry.

A noise from downstairs caught her attention and she forgot about waking this daddy and trotted unsteadily to the door- she was still learning the finer points of walking- slipping through the crack of the door and into the hallway. It was cold upstairs, the chill cutting through her thin pajamas, and the bare wooden floor turned her feet icy.

She didn’t want to be cold. She wanted to go back to her warm bed, but Rosie was fearless. Her favorite princess wouldn’t have been scared of the cold and run back. She would toss her long hair back, thrust out her chin, and face the cold.

Rosie tried to toss her hair over her shoulder but there wasn’t really enough of it to toss and all she accomplished was skewing her tiara. Straightening it somewhat crossly, Rosie sniffled, wiping her nose with the back of her hand, and then wobblingly thumped her way to the top of the stairs.

It was a lot higher than she remembered. Usually, daddy held her hand while they went down, waiting patiently for Rosie to stumble from one step to the other, his grip on her hand keeping her from falling.

She’d never gone down by herself before.

Worried, Rosie looked down, down, down the stairs at the slice of hallway and sitting room she could see at the bottom. She knew daddy was awake because she’d heard him, but he was nowhere to be seen. She looked back down the hall to the half-open bedroom door, wondering what she should do. Maybe she should go back and wake her other daddy and let him take her down the stairs. He might get mad, but at least she’d end up where she wanted to be. Or he might tell her it was too early and to go back to bed. He’d done that a few times.

Rosie dithered, stomping her little feet against the floor while she thought. She didn’t want to go back to bed. She didn’t want to wait. She didn’t want daddy to be cross. She wanted to go downstairs now.

There had to be a way.

Rosie held onto the wooden bannister at the top and hesitantly extended her foot, reaching for the first step. She whimpered. It was too far away. She tried again, extending her leg to the very limit, but still the little wooden platform was beyond her reach. Rosie scrunched up her face, whining a little, because it seemed like this situation required crying, and a few frustrated tears slipped down her cheeks.

Princesses didn’t cry. The thought was not comforting, made Rosie feel worse, and a couple more tears fell onto the wooden floor.

She sniffled again, wiping her snotty nose on the edge of her pajama top. She wanted to be a princess. She wanted to see her daddy. She used the back of her hand to wipe away the tears and plopped her butt on the top step. Sitting, her feet were just able to reach the second step and Rosie pushed herself onto it with her hands, lowering her butt onto the next step below. It was easy.

Rosie giggled, all previous sadness gone, slowly scooting her way from step to step in fits and starts, but gradually making her way to the bottom. She could do this on her own. She didn’t need anyone else.

Four more steps.

Three.

Two.

One.

“Yaaaaaa!” Rosie sprung up from the last step, jumping and cheering at her own cleverness, jostling her tiara until it slipped down over her eyes. She pushed it back impatiently and trotted into the sitting room, yelling for -

“Dadada!"

He wasn’t there. Rosie stopped, confused. The sitting room was just as it had been last night. The beautiful tree was in the corner, not lit at the moment, but the ornaments still sparkled in the sun. The pretty decorations were all there, the red hats and lights. But no Daddy.

She’d heard him earlier. She’d came all the way downstairs just to see him. Where was he?

“Rosie!”

Rosie’s heart leapt and she turned around. Daddy stood in the doorway, looking tired and wonderful and comfortable in his pajamas, with his fluffy hair sticking up, and she didn’t know why he was looking at her so oddly.

“Da!”

“How did you get down the stairs?”

Rosie hopped at bit, proud of her own daring and skill because she’d figured it out all by herself. She wriggled happily and then ran towards daddy, throwing her arms around his legs and burying her face in his knees. Daddy petted her head, ruffling her hair but careful not to bump her tiara. Rosie appreciated that.

“How?...Did you get downstairs all by yourself?” Daddy sounded confused, like Rosie had been before she figured out how to do it. But she was happy to show him, trotting to the stairs and plopping down on them. She bounced on the bottom step, giggling, while Daddy looked up the stairs, then back at her. Up, and back down. He didn’t say anything and Rosie’s giggles faded away.

Something was wrong.

Daddy was upset. Had she done something wrong? She thought she’d been so clever getting downstairs herself. She’d wanted to show off for Daddy. He was always telling her how smart she was and smiling at her and being happy with her. Rosie was crushed to know she’d made him mad.

“Da?” She asked quaveringly, tears ready to fall, but Daddy went to his knees in front of her and pulled her into his arms. Rosie’s tiara was knocked off and rattled to the floor, but she wasn’t worried about it, too upset that Daddy was sad. “

Sssh. It’s ok, darling. It’s ok. I’m not mad. I promise.” Rosie clung to his dressing gown and he picked her up, holding her against his chest tightly. “You were so smart, figuring out a way down yourself. But please don’t ever do that again.” Daddy breathed and his hand came up to cradle the back of her head. “ _Please_ , don’t. Not without your daddy or me there with you.” He pulled away so he could look at Rosie, gently wiping away her tears. “Do you understand?”

“Mmmmmm.” Rosie looked at the stairs and then back at Daddy, perplexed. “Da?”

“Don’t ever go down the stairs again unless someone is with you, Rosie.” Daddy said sternly. “ _Ever_. You’re too little to go down without someone to help you, and even your way…too much could happen. You could get severely hurt. Or worse.” Daddy kissed her forehead. “Tell your daddy or call for me. I’ll always come if you call for me. Okay? Promise me, Rosie.”

Rosie nodded and it made Daddy smile. He looked back up the stairs again, taking a long time to stare at nothing because Daddy was still asleep, then blinked and smiled at Rosie when she started to fuss. He scooped up her tiara from the floor and placed it on her head.

“What would you like for breakfast?”

* * *

 

The snow hadn’t melted. John could tell from the blinding sunlight that blasted into his room, amplified by the searing white outside, and he moaned, closing his eyes, rolling over and wishing he’d thought to close the curtains before he went to sleep. He’d been too upset to remember it last night.

What the hell had happened? He’d thought they’d been having a normal evening, awkward as arse, but normal. Things had been going fine. Great. Whiskey and a nice fire and comfortable…Then it’d all gone to hell.

John frowned, still keeping his eyes closed against the stabbing rays, and tried to think. What had he done to set Sherlock off like that? An outburst like that didn’t just come from nowhere. It had to have been caused by something. Last night, he hadn’t been thinking clearly and he had gone to bed angry, thinking Sherlock was just a selfish, dramatic queen of an arse. Now, in the light of morning, John took the time to think it through. What had happened and why. He’d asked about Sherlock’s time away, which Sherlock had wanted to tell him about when he first returned. John knew it. He knew Sherlock had wanted to. There’d been so many times Sherlock had brought it up…

Except…had he?

After that first night when Sherlock returned and tried to tell John but John was too angry to listen, had he ever mentioned it again? John couldn’t remember. He...didn’t _think_ Sherlock had. Why hadn’t he noticed that? Why was that even important? And Sherlock’s reaction- the venom in his voice, the way his hand had shaken gripping the tumbler, the evasiveness and anger- tugged at something in John’s memory, a time before when Sherlock had done something similar, reacted angrily, irrationally but…

John couldn’t remember when. Or where. Why was beyond him as well, but he’d remember.

He needed air. He needed away from Sherlock for just a few hours, to get out and let the cold wind clear his head. They’d been cooped up too long together. He could think better when he was outside, always had, especially about problems with Sherlock. His ankle was better. Maybe he’d go out later today, just for a walk around the block. Sherlock wouldn’t even have to know he was gone.

John checked his phone and groaned. It was late. Rosie needed to get up and John would fix her breakfast. Then, maybe he’d ask Mrs. Hudson to look after her, just for an hour, so he could walk around the block. John was already thinking of what he could offer to entice her for the favor, she’d done so much for them already…when he looked across to Rosie’s bed and saw she wasn’t in it.

Instant fear.

John flung his covers back and sprung up, staring at Rosie’s empty bed as if she would suddenly materialize in it. Where was she? His eyes frantically darted around the room and he threw himself to the floor to look under his bed, then across to Rosie’s, even though the bed sat too low for her to fit underneath.

No Rosie.

John’s heart stopped. The bedroom door was open. Only a little, but enough for Rosie to slip through. He’d forgotten to shut it last night, too distracted by Sherlock. Oh, god.

The stairs.

John stumbled to the door, flinging it open so fast it rebounded against the wall opposite, and dashed down the hallway, skidding to a stop at the top of the stairs. The white baby gate which usually stood sentinel at the top, protecting Rosie from falling down the stairs, was propped up against the wall. John had removed it last night when he went upstairs to bed, but he’d been so angry…he hadn’t thought to put it back.

Oh, god.

That was no excuse. Why hadn’t he put the goddamn gate back? He always put the gate back because without it, Rosie would try and go downstairs by herself and she couldn’t because she was too small and was still learning to walk and then-

John dreaded what he would find at the bottom of the stairs, certain he would look down and see his daughter sprawled and broken. It would be his fault. He was such a bad father he forgot important things like baby gates. He was almost afraid to look but…

No Rosie.

John sighed in relief. Thank god. But his relief was short-lived. If Rosie wasn’t there…where was she? He thundered down the stairs, breathing heavily, his mind conjuring up all the horrible things that could happen to her. If she hadn’t fallen down these stairs, what about the other set? Or what if she pulled something heavy down on her like a table or bookcase? Or found something laying out that she shouldn’t have? Were there any knives in the kitchen she could reach? John hadn’t put the bottle of whiskey up last night after Sherlock stormed off. What if Rosie found it?

John looked down the second set of stairs, panicking when he didn’t see Rosie because if she wasn’t there, where-?

“Sturdy furniture is the foundation of a good blanket fort, Rosie.”

John turned at the voice- a burst of relief at hearing Sherlock who had Rosie?- and then stopped, dumbfounded.

There was an entire blanket palace sprawled all over the sitting room, almost from wall to wall. A patchwork of quilts were draped over every piece of furniture they owned. Chairs and pointy objects stuck up from beneath the fabric which John had trouble identifying. Jutting out from what was ostensibly the front door of the palace, were two large bespoke sock-covered feet, the toes wiggling just a bit as the deep voice, speaker unseen in the palace, read the story of Rapunzel. John could hear Rosie babbling something, Sherlock responding, and then Rosie’s high-pitched giggle.

She was okay. Rosie was okay. John would have sank, weak-kneed, into a chair but they had all been commandeered for the building of the palace so he settled for propping himself against the doorframe and catching his breath. He didn’t know how Rosie had got down the stairs, but she had and she was safe and that was all that mattered. This was a horrible lesson, learned through fear. He knew he’d never forget to place the baby gate again. Rosie screamed, the sound shrill and making John wince.

“Dadadada!”

“Are you tired, sweetheart?” Sherlock’s low rumble asked and his toes wriggled as Rosie babbled something back to him. John watched the toes avidly, as if they contained all the answers he was looking for.

He was in love with Sherlock.

Like a bolt from the blue, John realized a few things simultaneously, most of which all boiled down to this: he may not understand what happened last night or why, and he may get angry as hell at him from time to time because the man drove him mad, but he was in love with Sherlock, and he needed to stop being a fucking twat about it. He’d done something wrong last night. He’d apologize, even if he didn’t know exactly what he’d done. He’d work it out and then apologize, and then ask, if Sherlock were amiable, if he could kiss him.

It was a daring plan and at the moment, John didn’t feel he had the bravery for it.

But it was decided. He loved Sherlock. He was going to do something about it. After all this time, John thought the moment he wised up would be momentous. A perfect moment on a case or during some heightened time of emotion when he and Sherlock had narrowly escaped death.

Not, he admitted, when he staring at Sherlock’s feet sticking awkwardly out of a blanket fort. But, there it was.

* * *

 

“Dadadada!”

Sherlock knew Rosie was still learning the rudiments of the English language, but she was an intelligent little girl and understood more than John thought she did, for all his talk about childhood development and cognitive ability. For example: after breakfast, when she had hidden from Sherlock under her blanket, and Sherlock suggested they build a proper blanket fort to sequester themselves in, she had been very excited about the idea.

Sherlock had started building it right away and Rosie, wearing her tiara, watched him with wide, bright eyes, absorbing everything he told her. The chairs in the sitting room were scooted around and positioned as two of the corners, opposite the sofa. The chairs at the table were commandeered and placed in the necessary positions. Then the table itself was moved, with a little difficulty, closer to the center of the room.

“Appropriate quilts are necessary for maximum coverage.” Sherlock explained as he raided the closet, pulling out every quilt they owned. He instructed Rosie to sit in the center of the furniture on the plush, red quilt he’d already spread down on the floor. She watched him cover all the furniture with pretty flowered sheets, tucking the fabric over and under, concealing everything and insulating them inside. She was confused, watching, wondering what her fluffy daddy was doing. Then, with a grin, Sherlock began throwing the quilts over everything. Rosie gasped and squealed every time her niche became darker…then darker…then darker some more…

Until finally, there was a small space beneath all the quilts, just big enough for her and Sherlock to sit in. They were effectively cocooned in a soft, warm cave. Rosie loved it.

Sherlock crawled in with her, pushing ahead of him her stuffed penguin that, when its tummy was pressed, lit up and projected an array of stars across the ceiling. He let Rosie push the tummy and she clapped her hands when warm yellow stars burst into life on the fabric over their heads. Even Sherlock had to admit it was rather pretty. It was also cramped. While spacious for Rosie, there was just barely enough room for him and he to be comfortable he had to settle for laying down and stretching his feet out of the opening to be comfortable. Rosie crawled over him, babbling excitedly about how remarkable the blanket fort was. Sherlock could tell.

“It is nice, isn’t it? I’m glad you think so. And here.” Sherlock brought out a stack of her brightly colored picture books. “I thought we could occupy ourselves.”

Rosie grinned and cuddled up to Sherlock’s side, surreptitiously wiping her nose on the sleeve of his robe while he chose a selection. She loved listening to her daddy read. He had a good reading voice, deep and pleasant, and he did the voices. She loved it when he did the voices. The Big Bad Wolf had never been scarier.

Sherlock, for his part, loved reading to Rosie. She was the perfect audience- even if she did insist on wiping her nose on his sleeves- but that morning, he was too preoccupied to fully enjoy it. The last two days had been…stressful. In different ways, and he was confused. He didn’t like being confused, especially when it came to things related to John.

“Ness!” Rosie demanded, jamming a hardcover book into Sherlock’s chest. Winded, he blinked the tears from his eyes and looked at the cover of the weaponized book.

“Not this one again.” He begged, even as he dutifully opened the cover. “I really can’t. Please, god, no.”

Rosie wiped more snot on Sherlock’s sleeve and patiently waited for her story.

Sherlock heaved a sigh, the most snot covered, put upon person on the planet. “Once upon a time, there was a girl named Rapunzel…”

He didn’t need to actually read the words on the page. He had read this book to Rosie so many times, and heard it read by John or Mrs. Hudson, he could recite it from memory. He had even heard it in his sleep; the story of a girl named Rapunzel with the sodding golden hair that would haunt him to his dying day.

As the evil witch demanded the man and his wife give her their baby, Sherlock’s thoughts wandered back to the previous night. He could admit, the morning after, that perhaps in retrospect, he had overreacted. John had been nothing but friendly and nice. Sherlock was the one who had behaved badly. Just because he was upset that John had kissed him out pity was no reason to resent him and shout. John had meant well by his actions. It had been a very nice gesture, John’s kiss, with the best of intentions, and meant a lot to Sherlock, even knowing the real reason for it. That only painted John in the best light because if he were so dedicated to making things better between them that he would force himself to kiss Sherlock...he must be sincere. Honest and good.

Besides, Sherlock didn’t want to ruin the memory of his one kiss with John with bitterness. He would apologize to John later today.

Sherlock finished the book, thankfully, and Rosie seemed happy to burrow into the fort and nap. Sherlock tucked her in, wrapping a spare quilt around her and giving her a kiss on the head before crawling out of the fort.

John was sitting in the kitchen, eating breakfast and having a cup of tea. When Sherlock emerged, he smiled at him and nodded at the sitting room.

“Nice setup, that. How long did it take you?”

Sherlock straightened and surveyed his work, shrugging. Maybe he had gone a bit far, but Rosie deserved the best. “Not long. Half an hour. Rosie seemed to like it.”

“She’s in there?”

“Yeah. Sleeping.”

John sighed gravely, sitting back in his chair. “I forgot to put up the baby gate last night. How’d she get downstairs?”

Sherlock hesitated. He didn’t want to make John feel badly, or sound accusatory. The baby gate should have been at the top of the stairs, but after last night and the way he had behaved, it was only natural John might have forgotten. It could have ended worse. “She apparently scooted down on her bottom. I didn’t notice her until she was already down and looking for me.”

“I forgot to put up the gate. She could have died and it would have been my fault.” John confessed and he looked so dejected Sherlock stepped closer.

“Forgetting is a mistake anyone could make-“

“No. I need to feel bad about this Sherlock. Rosie could have died because I was too sodding lazy.”

Sherlock had nothing to counter that. They both knew John was right. “I should have noticed when I woke up. I passed the stairs twice this morning. This was both our faults.”

John gave Sherlock a look and shook his head. “No. It was mine. Something I won’t forget again, though. I made you a cup of tea.” He nodded to a steaming cup on the side of the table opposite him. Sherlock picked it up, baffled. If John were making him tea, he must not be too angry with him. Maybe this was the best time to apologize. Sherlock drew a deep breath, ready for his prepared speech.

“John-“

“Listen. Would you care to watch Rosie for a bit?” John asked, swirling his tea quickly, a sign of agitation. “I know you already have this morning but…I’d like to take a walk this morning. Just around the block.”

The tea was perfect, the right amount of sugar and warm but not scalding. Sherlock cupped his hands around it to preserve the experience of physical proof of John’s care. “Of course.”

“Um. And when I get back? I’d like to talk to you. Okay?”

There it was. Sherlock nodded, resigned. They needed to have this out.

“Yes. There are...certain thing I need to discuss with you too.”

“Right. All right then.” John stood from the table and gave him a grateful look. “Be back in a bit.”

* * *

 

Rosie was asleep in her crib when John got back. He peeked in at her, smiling at her cute little face and the tiara sparkling beside her, but there was no sign of Sherlock. He looked around the sitting room where the palace was still sprawled and- one of the quilts moved the slightest amount. Bingo.

“Sherlock? You in there?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” John waited for Sherlock to crawl out, but there was no sound from within the palace, not even a rustle.

“Right. Okay” Sherlock didn’t seem inclined to come out so John crawled in after him, feeling ridiculous, but he wasn’t surprised. Sherlock _would_ make this difficult.

It may have been a blanket palace, but it wasn’t meant to accommodate two fully grown men. It was very cramped. John realized this had been a Bad Mistake. He should have made Sherlock come out, or tossed aside a quilt so he could see him and talk. In the small space, he could feel Sherlock’s body heat against his cold skin. Sherlock was sitting near the back of the niche, cross legged, and John could make out his face in the gloom, light from the opening illuminating him, his hair frizzed around him, making him look almost ethereal.

Calm down, Watson. It’s a sodding blanket fort.

“We need to talk.” John began and Sherlock made a face. “Yeah, I know. That’s a shit way to start. But. Anyway. Listen, about last night-“

“There’s no reason to discuss that. I was the one-” Sherlock said repressively but John shook his head.

“No, let me get this out. I need to. Look. I know I made you mad and I was probably too...pushy. Wanting to know what happened when you were gone. But...the reason I wanted to know. The reason I asked was because...uh...because…” John chuckled nervously and picked at loose thread in the quilt. “Was because,” he tried again but Sherlock saved him the trouble.

“I know why.” He said quietly and John risked a glance up. Sherlock was looking away, down and to the side.

“You do?”

“Yes.” Sherlock straightened as much as he could in the small space, his curls brushing the roof of the cavern. “And while I know your intentions are honorable and you mean well, I’d prefer not to be the receiver of your pity.”

Halfway through Sherlock’s sentence, John had lost all hope of what he had built himself up to on his walk... but at the final word, he frowned. “Wait. What?”

Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes. “You meant well, John. I understand that. And I understand that you thought a kiss would be the best apology the other night, and under the circumstances of our past relationship I can see the idea has merit. It was a very nice kiss, by the way. You are... _adept_ at that sort of thing. I enjoyed it.”

“Ta.” John said drily, high praise- but he could swear, from the small amount of light, that Sherlock was blushing. He scooted closer.

“But the fact remains that I do not want to be the object of your pity because you feel guilt over past actions and want to...make it up to me or make amends or something trite like that. I told you before you moved in that we were fine. That I’d forgiven you and that-“

“Sorry. _Wait_.” John help up a hand to stop Sherlock’s speech. “You think...the only reason I kissed you the other night was because I felt _sorry_ for you?”

“Well. Yes.” Sherlock blinked. “The evidence supported the hypothesis and given your past actions towards me, you’d want to counter past violence with affection, show you had truly changed and after what you said to the couple in the park-“

“What-?”

“And then last night when you didn’t mention your display of affection but instead pressed, with some urgency to fill the void with conversation- I know it was a distraction, even if you really do want to know about my time away, which I grant, you might- I concluded that was hint enough the incident was to be forgotten and resigned myself to-“

* * *

 

Sherlock hated being interrupted.

It stemmed from his childhood when he had always been competing against Mycroft to see who could get the better answer the quickest. It had always been Mycroft. By the time Sherlock had worked it out, Mycroft was already parroting it aloud for everyone, talking over Sherlock. Or running into Sherlock’s deductions with his own when Sherlock was only halfway done. Then there were people at crime scenes who always interjected their stupid opinion that what he’d said was “impossible” and “ridiculous,” not caring they’d interrupted Sherlock even though Sherlock was there to help them.

So yes. Sherlock hated being interrupted.

Or he did.

Apparently, he decided, he only hated being interrupted by other people because John interrupting him was...fine.

John’s hand at the back of his head pressed Sherlock into the kiss which he was grateful for because without it, he would have jerked away from sheer shock. He didn’t want to jerk away. John knelt up, giving him more height over Sherlock in the small space, and one hand cupped Sherlock’s cheek as his other gentled, fingers loosening and spreading out through Sherlock’s curls, encouraging him to tip his head to the side, which he did.

Sherlock kissed back as much as he could, but this kiss was different from their first one. John wasn’t being gentle. He was kissing Sherlock roughly, slanting their lips together and barely giving Sherlock enough time to react, or even breathe. That was fine. More than fine. Sherlock would choose kissing John over breathing any day.

He didn’t even know why John was kissing him, if it was from more pity or a displaced sense of reparation for last night, but Sherlock couldn’t stop him. He didn’t want to. He was overwhelmed. He grasped at John’s hips to keep from tipping over, rough trousers underneath his fingertips and, beneath that, the ridge of John’s hip and it shouldn’t have been erotic- it was only anatomy- but it made Sherlock shudder and hold tighter.

“...nothing to do….pity.” John managed to say against Sherlock’s lips, and _oh_. That felt interesting. It sent another shudder through Sherlock and then John was pulling him closer and Sherlock’s body thrilled at the touch, every nerve ending electrically aware of where John was touching him, what was happening, the way John’s lips moved over his-

Sherlock gasped, the shocking feeling of John’s tongue against his lips enough to make him moan and in a rush of embarrassment he pulled back, snatching his hands away.

“Sorry- I’m sorry-“ His voice was shaky and high. John was close, inches away in the darkness of the palace, both of them panting, their breaths mingling as Sherlock tried to...to…

He could feel himself blinking rapidly. His lips were tingling from John’s kisses, chest rapidly rising and falling, and it felt as if his entire body were on fire.

“Sorry.” He stammered again and John frowned, confused.

“Why are you sorry?”

“That. What I. That.” He winced, frustrated because the words would not form. He didn’t even know what he was trying to say. “Probably sounded...and Rosie. She’s in her crib.”

John nodded slowly. “Yeah. Yeah. You’re right. Probably not the best place for this.” He regarded Sherlock suddenly, looking worried. “Um. Just...just for the record. You enjoyed that? I didn’t-“

“Yes. Of course I did. Why wouldn’t I?” Sherlock said in a rush, embarrassed at his overly eager reaction. His heart was still pounding and he pulled his knees up to his chest, flushing.

“Okay. And just to be sure….that wasn’t from pity.”

“Right.”

“Okay. So. Right.” John nodded. “Um. I guess I’ll just-”

“You go on ahead.” Sherlock said. “I’ll be out in a minute..”

John frowned, concerned. “You okay?”

“Yes. Just.” Sherlock cleared his throat nervously. “I’ll stay here a little longer. Um. Yes.” He nodded in what he hoped was a self-assured way, but John didn’t look convinced and he took in Sherlock’s posture, hunched and compressed, the flush staining his cheeks, and Sherlock avoided his eyes as John came to the obvious conclusion.

“Oh.” He sounded odd and Sherlock fidgeted with the piece of string John had been playing with earlier, ducking his head so he wouldn’t be able to even see John. How much more awkward could he make this?

“Right. Okay. That’s. I’ll just...be out here.”

“Fine.” “

You sure you’re...okay?”

Sherlock nodded, not trusting himself to speak and as soon as John was out of the palace and the flap closed behind him, he buried his face in his knees, breathing a sigh of relief.


	12. Day 12- Mistletoe

“Mistletoe hung where you can see, every couple tries to stop…”

Mrs. Hudson hummed as she added the final decorations to the flat. The perfect finishing touches. Sherlock Holmes may have forgotten who owned this building, but she hadn’t. She was their landlady, they were her tenants. She may get a large check every month for housing Sherlock, but that didn’t mean she had lost all rights to her own house. She could decorate any room any way she damn well pleased.

“Lights fill the streets spreading so much cheer, I should be playing in the winter snow, but I’mma be under the mistletoe…”

If Sherlock wanted to complain, he knew where to find her. But, Mrs. Hudson doubted, as she surveyed her handiwork, that Sherlock would protest. He’d thank her for it later, and, she thought giggling, he better invite her to the wedding.

“Ho, ho, the mistletoe, hung where you can see…Somebody waits for you, kiss him once for me…”

* * *

 

When John and Rosie came down the next morning, Rosie riding in state in John’s arms with her tiara sparkling on her head, it was to find in every doorway, under every arch, near every window, in any location they could possibly be, were hung brightly festive sprigs of mistletoe. Wrapped in red and gold plaid ribbon and hung with transparent little hooks, they were everywhere. Bright and gay, mocking.

Sherlock was already up, eating breakfast and pretending the mistletoe didn’t exist. He’d eyed the new decorations with mortification this morning and he’d known who was responsible for their sudden appearance. He also knew why she had felt the need to plant the suggestive sprays in their flat. It was like a beacon, as obvious as a declaration.

“What…?” John spun on the spot, picking out each new bit of green in astonishment, helped by Rosie who pointed and exclaimed at each one. “Where’d these come from?”

“It wasn’t me.” Sherlock said quickly before John got the wrong idea and thought he was trying to trick him into kissing him again. John smiled.

“Didn’t think it was.”

“But I’ll give you one guess who.” Sherlock said acidly. “One more than you need.” He snatched one clump down from the doorway to the kitchen, then the second from the hallway. He didn’t need Mrs. Hudson’s help. He crumpled the fragrant little things in his hand and reached for another when John stopped him.

“Wait, wait. You don’t have to take them all down.” He nodded to where there were at least 9 other sprigs in the living room/kitchen alone. There was one over the mantle, on the buffalo, each window. There were more everywhere in the flat. There was even one in the loo. “I don’t mind them. Do you?”

Sherlock gave John a sidelong look, trying to understand what he was thinking. Why would he want mistletoe sprinkled around their flat like forced amorous-inducing parasites? Unless…

They hadn’t discussed their kiss yesterday, or what John had said, as was their regular custom it would seem. But if John had meant what he said, and he hadn’t kissed Sherlock from pity, then that could mean…

Sherlock looked at the green sprays with pretty red berries. He and John had had a lovely evening together, relaxed and happy, and it hadn’t seemed they needed to bring up what had happened between them because...well. It just didn’t need to be said. They both knew. No reason to beat a dead horse and all that. He’d like to be kissed by John again though. Yesterday had been very pleasant, and if the mistletoe put John in the right mood…

“They’re nice.” John shrugged. “Adds to the Christmas atmosphere.”

“They’re a stupid, archaic tradition.” But Sherlock left the others where they were, shooting them only slightly venomous looks.

John put Rosie in her highchair and gave her some circular cereal to crunch while he fixed breakfast. “You know what they mean, don’t you?”

“Of course I do.”

“What then?”

“What… _what_?”

“What does mistletoe in the doorways mean?” John pressed, as if he really didn’t know. Sherlock didn’t know whether to feel exasperated or offended. He settled for embarrassed discomfiture.

“Something to do with kissing, I believe.” He muttered and forced himself to remain calm and not let it show that he was remembering their previous encounter. He didn’t think he succeeded because John gave him the soft smile which he only reserved for when he thought Sherlock was being ‘sweet.’

“Something to do with kissing.” John repeated. “Yeah, it does. I didn’t think you’d know what it stood for.”

“It’s not a difficult concept.”

John scrambled some eggs for Rosie and readied some toast and honey for himself. Sherlock watched him from the safety of the table, shrewdly. John was up to something. He could see it: in the set of John’s shoulders, his abrupt movements as he cooked, quick tongue darting out to lick his lips nervously. Sherlock was patient. He could wait.

It took John five minutes towork up the nerve to ask: “And have you ever…?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “Have I ever what?”

John’s tongue peeked out, licking at his bottom lip, there and gone. Anxious. “Kissed someone?”

“You’re asking _me_ if _I’ve_ ever kissed someone?” Sherlock asked incredulously, and John blushed.

“Besides yesterday. And uh. The other night. I mean. Anyone else?”

“Have I ever kissed someone besides you, you mean?”

“It’s not a difficult concept.” John shot back, still smarting from Sherlock’s blow, and Sherlock huffed. He’d deserved that.

“Fine. Yes.”

John spun around, spatula in his hand. “Yes, you’ve kissed someone?”

“That is what I just said, John.” Sherlock replied, carefully enunciating every syllable. If he made John embarrassed enough, perhaps he would leave this line of questioning alone.

“Who?”

No such luck. John was tenacious when he wanted to know something. “What do you mean, who?”

“Who else have you kissed?”

“Why?”

John shrugged and turned back to the eggs, feigning nonchalance which did nothing to put Sherlock at ease. His suspicion increased. “No reason. Just…asking.”

“Why are you ‘just asking’?”

“Curiosity.”

“And why are you curious?”

“I don’t know.” John admitted to the pan of eggs. “I just am?”

Sherlock watched John finish the eggs and tip them onto Rosie’s platter. She immediately grabbed at them with both hands and squished them between her fingers before opening her mouth as wide as she could and stuffing a handful inside. John gave her a sippy cup of milk, poured himself some tea, and sat across from Sherlock at the table with a piece of honey covered toast. He gave Sherlock an uneasy smile, tucking into his toast with more attention than it required. Sherlock could see John’s desire to ask again, figure out if Sherlock had ever kissed anyone else. He took too long chewing and gave his tea more consideration than it ever would have needed. Sherlock relented.

“ _Yes_ , I’ve kissed people before.”

“Mm.” John nodded, staring at his tea, not interested. It was a ruse.

“You can ask me who.”

“I don’t need to know, Sherlock. It’s your private life.”

“Just ask, John.” Sherlock said irritably. “You clearly want to know.”

“Ok, fine. Who?”

“Janine.”

“You weren’t actually with her.”

“That doesn’t mean we didn’t kiss. You were there. You saw. Her tongue was literally in my mouth when she left for work. Was that not enough of a display for you?”

John’s jaw tightened and he put down his toast, lips pursing. “Yeah. I saw.”

“There you go.”

John cleared his throat, drumming his fingers on the table. When Sherlock looked at them, he stopped, but it looked like it took effort. “Anyone else?”

Sherlock tucked his chin in. He wondered how John would take what he said next. He thought he knew. “The woman.”

 _“Irene Adler?_ You kissed her?” John’s outrage was immediate, scalding and flattering all at once. His expression was thunderous and he leaned across the table toward Sherlock, jostling his tea, his breakfast and feigned nonchalance entirely forgotten.

“In fairness, she kissed me, not the other way around. It was her way of thanking me for rescuing her. So yes, she kissed me. But I didn’t stop her.”

John’s teeth were gritted. He sat back in his chair, seething. It upset John to know Irene Adler had kissed him. Sherlock didn’t know why, but he was flattered.

“Okay. That’s it, then?”

“Mm. One or two people at uni, no one important.”

“People?”

Fine. If John wanted him to say it. “Men.”

“Oh.” John nodded, like Sherlock had confirmed something he’d been pondering for a while. “Yeah. Sure. And you…liked it?”

“That wasn’t the original question, John. I’ve adhered to the original parameters. You asked if I’d ever kissed someone. I answered.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.” John rubbed his hands together, fixedly staring at them. He seemed ashamed of his earlier outburst and was clearly trying to calm himself.

“And I’ve kissed you.” Sherlock said quietly, stomach swooping at his own daring which was ridiculous. John knew they had kissed. He’d been there. John lifted his eyes from his hands, and the soft smile was back again, the full power of it directed at Sherlock and he didn’t know why John thought he was being ‘sweet’ but if it made John keep looking at him like that, he didn’t care.

“Yeah. You have.”

“And…” Sherlock tucked his chin in, crossing his arms defensively before he revealed the final piece of information. “You are clearly the most proficient with that paritcular...skill.”

John’s tongue poked out, tiny pink licking his lips and then disappearing just as quickly. “I am?”

“Flattery doesn’t become you, John.” Sherlock said, and John laughed.

“You can take the mistletoe down.” He offered. “If you want. I don’t want to force you to keep it up.”

“No, it’s…fine.” Sherlock said. Maybe the silly things had been a good idea after all. “It can stay.”

* * *

 

Sherlock had kissed other people. John didn’t know why it bothered him, but it did. Of course Sherlock had kissed other people. He was in his mid-thirties, a grown adult male with a supposedly, one could assume especially after the...development yesterday, healthy sex drive. He had intelligence and good looks and, when he wanted to display it, a very charming personality. He would’ve had no trouble attracting anyone he wanted.

John was consumed with jealousy. Had Sherlock enjoyed it? Had he done more than kiss these people? It was natural to assume he had, but had he? Had he breathed their name the way he had John’s, literally clinging to him while they kissed? Had he moaned, so small it was barely audible but there if you were pressed close enough to hear it?

John didn’t know and it was driving him mad. 

He remembered Mycroft’s snide comments, and the Woman’s nickname for Sherlock- The Virgin- and Sherlock’s general discomfort whenever sex was mentioned. Even yesterday, in the privacy of the quilt palace, Sherlock had seemed mortified for John for to know he was aroused. Add to that the fact that John had never actually seen Sherlock involved with someone, besides Janine, and it left him confused. He knew nothing sexual had happened between Sherlock and Janine because Janine had complained to Mary about it. Graphically.

“She said he won’t even touch her.” Mary told John as soon as Janine was gone home. John settled on the sofa with a bracing cup of tea and Mary curled up beside him, her face alight from juicy gossip. “She went in the shower with him the other morning- he was all wet and naked she said, gorgeous chest, pale skin, barely any hair on his chest which that’s what she likes- and he would barely look at her. Janine. Naked. And he barely looked at her. If that doesn’t hurt a girl’s confidence….”

John didn’t like to think of Janine accosting Sherlock in the shower. When Sherlock was naked and maybe hadn’t wanted her there, calling him Sherl and giggling. “Mm.”

“She offered to toss him off and he declined. Seemed really startled by it, she said. Couldn’t stop stuttering. But he was so polite about it, she said, that she couldn’t even be offended. I told her she’s wasting her time, anyway. Janine isn’t Sherlock’s type.”

John did not want to imagine Janine asking to toss Sherlock off or what Sherlock had looked like when she did, vulnerable and naked, wide eyed, stammering. What the hell had Janine being thinking? “What do you mean?”

Mary gave John an impish look. “I mean she doesn’t have a _cock_ , so he’s not interested.”

“Mary!”

“It’s true! Come on, John. Don’t tell me you think Sherlock’s straight?”

“I don’t think he’s…anything.” John said, which was true enough because who the hell knew?- and Mary laughed, but changed the subject.

Mary had liked to discuss Sherlock with John. And he’d thought it was because Sherlock was the lone friend they had in common and who else could she talk to about him? She was obsessive though, and sometimes went too far. She talked about what he was like. Who he’d probably dated. What his type was. John hadn’t been able to tell her because who knew what Sherlock wanted from a romantic partner? Mary had filled in the blanks herself.

“Posh boy likes a bit of rough.” She’d say wisely. “All those rich, public school boys are like that, you know.”

“Like what?”

“Like Sherlock.” She said significantly, lifting her eyebrows suggestively. “Acts all posh and cold on the outside. A ‘touch-me-not,’ mannerly gentleman. When really all he wants is a bit of rough to fuck him into the bed so he can’t remember his own name.”

The language was shocking, the statement even more so.

“Nope. No. Not Sherlock.” John didn’t know why he was defending Sherlock from Mary. Or why it bothered him what she was saying. Why he hated the idea of some “bit of rough” manhandling Sherlock and fucking him, while Sherlock laid on his back, legs spread and hair fanned out. Would he stammer then too? Or would he not even be able to speak, Sherlock who had a comment for everything, rendered without words from the pleasure as he got fucked?

It was crude. He shouldn’t think of Sherlock that way.

Fuck. Stop it.

Mary had scoffed. “Oh please, John. Open your eyes. You can’t tell me the great Sherlock Holmes has gone through his whole life without any sex. You’ve seen the man. He’s gorgeous. He could have anyone he wanted.”

That was true enough. “I guess.”

“John.” Mary gave him a blank stare. “You’re not fooling me.”

John had looked away, angry.

“Anyway. He’s not as innocent as he plays. You don’t know him like I do, John. You can’t see through him the way I can.” Mary goaded, tossing her hair, superior in her knowledge of Sherlock even though she’d known him less than a year. “Sherlock isn’t any more of a virgin than I am.” She teased, wriggling her eyebrows at John, offering him to share in the joke. He’d smiled, but it was forced. Mary snorted. 

"You’d think he’d be bossy in the bedroom, just like he is all the time, but I don’t think so. He’d fold. Totally submissive. All those posh boys are. It’s why that Irene Adler from your blog made so much money. Rich boys have it all, all the money and power, but in bed they love to be told what to do.”

“Mary.” John didn’t want to hear anymore. He’d got up and left, but Mary had done what she wanted: planted the thoughts in John’s head because she knew it would bother him. It had.

* * *

 

“Terry.” Mary said out of the blue. John frowned, handing her a soapy plate to rinse and dry.

“Who?”

“Terry. My friend from work.”

“What about him?”

“For Sherlock.” Mary said, exasperated, but from the way she smiled, John knew she knew what he was about. She took the plate and gave it a cursory swipe. “I bet he’d liven Sherlock up, good and proper.”

“Um. Sure. I guess.”

“He’s taller than Sherlock, even. So it’s perfect. Lots of muscle. Really fit. Maybe I’ll invite him over next weekend and you can ask Sherlock over. Or wait.” She shook her head. “I’d better do it. Sherlock won’t come if you ask him- he’ll say he’s too busy- but he can’t say no to me.” She winked and John clenched his hands in the dishwater. “Bet he won’t be able to say no to Terry. And after he spends the night with him, he’ll be thanking me. You wait and see.”

John gritted his teeth, scrubbed at a crusty plate with more vigor than was necessary, and didn’t say anything.

“What?” Mary has laughed, nudging John suggestively. “Everyone likes a bit of a rough shag now and again. And speaking of…? Rosie is asleep. Let’s just leave these and go upstairs…”

John had tried not to think of Sherlock having a rough shag, but he couldn’t stop. The idea was in his head. The sounds Sherlock would make, how he’d look and feel. He could imagine, even if he didn’t want to, what it would be like to have Sherlock under him, over him, riding John’s hips, thrusting into slick heat and listening to Sherlock moan as his gorgeous mouth fell open when he came-

Fuck.

John didn’t want Sherlock to meet Terry. He felt as if he would be throwing Sherlock to the wolves if he allowed that to happen. Which was ridiculous because Sherlock was a grown man. He had defended himself on more than one occasion John remembered. He’d traveled the world dismantling Moriarty’s web and came back without a scratch. He didn’t need protecting from overly amorous dates. But John had experience with Sherlock and his odd naiveté over relationships and sex and love which he had seen more than once on cases. Sherlock shammed a lot, cutting remarks working where practical knowledge didn’t, but he’d been clearly out of his depth in those situations, looking to John to guide him and quietly trusting John not to make fun of him or judge. John hadn’t. It made him think, though, that Sherlock didn’t have much experience with sex. And if that was true, hell even if it wasn’t, he didn’t need to be passed around to Mary’s friends who were all obnoxious and boorish and wouldn’t know how to appreciate Sherlock. Not that John thought he could, of course, but a whole lot fucking more than an idiot like Terry could.

“If he got fucked on the regular, Sherlock would probably be nicer. Much less…Sherlock-y.” Mary had known what she was doing, planting those ideas in John’s head. It had been her way of getting back at John, her resentment over their estrangement spilling over into regular life. Her bitterness that John wouldn’t have sex with her pushing her to try and tear John apart in whatever way she could.

She’d done a good job of it, even if John pretended he hadn’t cared. He had cared. A lot. And it always ended the way Mary wanted: John thinking of how Sherlock would react to him, in a blurry hypothetical situation. How would he react? Would he be shocked? Pull away? Keep still and just let John kiss him and not kiss back? Or would he surge into the kiss, try and take control just like he did with everything else between them? Now, though, John had his answer: Sherlock would soften, totally pliant, and his lips would part beneath John’s and he’d breathe his name, moan.

* * *

 

John watched Sherlock type on his laptop across the room, engrossed in answering e-mails. There were a few clients, nothing that rated leaving the flat, but interesting enough to actually reply.

He thought of their kiss yesterday, and the way Sherlock had clutched at him even as he let John tip him slowly backwards, not even putting up a protest. And he’d been aroused. John hadn’t seen it, but the evidence had been there. Sherlock had admitted it even, in a roundabout way. Sherlock enjoyed kissing John. He said John was the most adept at kissing. He wanted to leave the mistletoe up.

John felt like a leach and he looked back to his own laptop, the tips of his ears red and an answering, inappropriate hardness in his trousers.

* * *

 

The next door in Rosie’s Christmas advent was a child’s plastic, purple teacup with a happy, smiling face. From behind the sofa, Sherlock produced the rest of the set: another anthropomorphic teacup and a pink teapot, with a small pink tray of plastic pastries with which to have the perfect tea party. Rosie banged her new toys against the floor, with more force when she realized they wouldn’t break, and gave Sherlock a gap-toothed grin.

She wanted to have a tea party then and there so John made tea for himself and Sherlock, and cooled down some of it for Rosie to put in her teapot. They sat on the floor, legs crossed, and Rosie laid out her tea things the way she wanted. Sherlock helped her pour out into the teacups and he and John pretended to enjoy the cold liquid while Rosie babbled and made a mess. Some Christmas special played in the background, something with a man learning the value of friendship and family at Christmastime, and John found a music channel on his phone which was playing nothing but carols. They all sat in front of the tree, drinking cold tea and accepting plastic cakes from Rosie, ooohing and aaaahing as the situation demanded.

Soon, Rosie tired and John carried her up to bed, putting on her nightgown and tucking her in with her favorite toys. He made sure the baby gate was in the right place, locked in, and his bedroom door was closed. He took the baby monitor downstairs with him, heart hammering in his throat and wondering if he was really going to do what he was thinking of doing.

Sherlock was picking up their tea things, carefully storing Rosie’s new toys- cleaned and scrubbed- on top of her toy box, within easy reach if she wanted them the next morning. He loaded his arms with the cups he and John had used and gave John a smile when he saw him in the doorway.

John suddenly knew. He could do it. Sherlock was relaxed and happy, with the Christmas lights reflected in his eyes and John was across the room in three steps. He took the tea things from Sherlock and put them back on the table.

“John-?”

I’m going to kiss you, John thought. I’m going to kiss you and do anything else you’ll let me have. Whatever you want. “We’ve forgotten something.”

“What?”

“The mistletoe.”

“Oh. That. I told you earlier that I would get rid of it.” Sherlock reminded him exasperatedly, and John grinned, shaking his head

“No, that’s not what I meant.” He stepped closer and Sherlock’s eyes flicked up and down his body questioningly. John knew he was being deduced and he let himself show everything he felt. Sherlock’s breath hitched and he seemed to freeze where he was. “You’ve been walking under the mistletoe all day, all evening, and I haven’t done anything about it.”

“You haven’t?” Sherlock asked quietly, scanning John’s face as if he were unsure of what he was seeing.

“No. I haven’t. And you said you knew what it meant, yeah?”

“Yes.”

“I think we should preserve the traditions.”

Sherlock’s eyes settled on John’s lips, his own parting slightly. “We should?”

John stepped closer and Sherlock mirrored him, taking a half step forward, frowning slightly, hesitant as if he still wasn’t sure he was correctly interpreting what was happening. “If you want.”

“So…a kiss?”

“Mm. Yes. But more like a few. You’ve gone in and out of the kitchen at least 4 times. Then the loo…and your bedroom…” John ticked off everywhere Sherlock had gone, the mistletoe hanging under every possible area promising him a kiss.

“That’s...quite a lot.” Sherlock managed and jumped when John’s hand found his, wrapping around it and gently pulling Sherlock closer to him.

“Yes. May take a while to have that many.” John admitted teasingly and Sherlock’s cheeks darkened. He looked down at their entwined hands and then back up, his cheeks going even redder and John knew what he was going to say before-

“It may take...all night?”

“God, yes.” John pulled Sherlock closer, pressing his lips against his and Sherlock stiffened in surprise- John felt a flash of worry, he’d read this completely wrong- and then Sherlock melted into the kiss. That was the best way John could describe his reaction. He didn’t pull away, he didn’t grasp at John and draw him closer. Sherlock relaxed, all the tension leaving his body in a rush, and his lips parted beneath John’s, his eyes sliding closed and a tiny sigh escaping as John sealed their lips together. John opened his eyes, expecting to find Sherlock looking back at him, but Sherlock’s eyes were closed, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks and John deepened the kiss, his arms coming up around Sherlock’s back and Sherlock made a small noise. He cupped John’s face, his touch feather light, as if even now, with John pressed against him and John’s tongue in his mouth, he was afraid he would be rebuffed. The soft touch, freely given, was electric and John shuddered.

Then he was the one surging forwards, cupping Sherlock’s face and tilting it to the side so he could slant their lips together with more urgency and Sherlock gave ground as John backed him up, walking until Sherlock’s legs hit the edge of his chair and he fell heavily into the seat. It broke them out of the stupor, and their kiss. John’s heart was pounding. Sherlock’s lips were already red, swollen from their kissing. They paused, regarding each other, taking a moment to make sure- they were really doing this?

They were.

Sherlock grasped at the hem of John’s jumper, tugging, and John leaned down, slotting his knees to either side of Sherlock’s hips and climbing onto his lap. Sherlock made a low noise deep in his throat and John could already feel him, hard, and if that was how Sherlock responded to a kiss, John wanted to drive him wild. He ran his tongue along the bottom of Sherlock’s lips, hearing him gasp as he sucked Sherlock’s lip into his mouth, grazing it gently with his teeth. Sherlock panted and licked into John’s own mouth and this time it was John’s turn to moan. Sherlock’s hands gripped John’s upper arms, fingers digging into the muscles to keep John from leaving. As if he wanted to.

John couldn’t get enough of kissing Sherlock and _god_ the way Sherlock was responding, the small noises he was making in his throat, broken moans as he tried to be quiet. John left his lips and dipped his head, trailing kisses down Sherlock’s neck and Sherlock’s head fell back, eyes closing, breath stuttering out in an overwrought sigh.

He was going too fast. Being too rough but John had wanted this for too long, fantasized about it so many times, and to have Sherlock with him and so damn responsive-

“John…” Sherlock already sounded wrecked and they’d barely done anything. John could feel Sherlock’s hardness flex beneath him and oh god, he wanted to press against Sherlock, grind, like they were horny teenagers and bring them both off but that would be presumptuous and he didn’t know what Sherlock wanted.

John pulled away reluctantly, flattered when Sherlock made a small sound of protest and tried to kiss him, and rested his forehead against Sherlock’s. Together they relearned how to breathe.

“Did I do something wrong?” Sherlock asked shakily and John chuckled, shaking his head.

“No. God no.” he leaned down, close to Sherlock’s ear and pressed a kiss beneath it, Sherlock shivering when he did. “Just have to. Wait. God I want you.”

“Then…have me.”

John pulled away to stare at Sherlock. “Do you know what I mean?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?” John had to ask. He wanted and his heart was pounding but that didn’t mean they had to do anything.

Sherlock nodded. His hands dropped from John’s arms to his thighs and, staring at John the whole time, daringly inched them up, slowly, building the anticipation until the tips of his fingers were just barely brushing the bulge that was starting to form there. The sight of Sherlock’s hand so close to where John had fantasized it being so many times affected him, his cock hardening further as if begging for Sherlock to close that last millimeter of space.

“Oh god.” John kissed him again and he would have carried on with his plan, but Sherlock drew back.

“Maybe we should. Go somewhere else?”

“Yeah. Okay. Um.”

“My bedroom.” Sherlock clarified as if John hadn’t been able to work that out. He nodded, climbed off Sherlock’s lap, his jeans too tight, and was gratified that Sherlock was in a similar state, his hands fluttering over the obvious before clasping in front of his groin, drawing more attention to it than hiding, but John let him think it did. Sherlock started leading him to the bedroom and John snatched up the baby monitor at the last minute, and then followed Sherlock down the hall.


	13. Day 13- Snowmen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm completely cheating on this: John and Sherlock are the snowmen. 
> 
> PLEASE NOTE: the perspective switches from the Morning After to the Previous Night. I think it will be fairly obvious which is which ;)

The first order of business upon waking was to leave the warm comfort of his bed and face the cold reality of the new day. Tiptoe to the loo and shower, cleaning himself thoroughly and scrubbing his hair until his scalp smarted. Dry off, then clothes- pants, trousers, socks, button up the shirt, pull on the dressing gown. The blue one. It was softer and this morning he needed the extra comfort. Go upstairs and smile at Rosie who was already awake and playing with her toes and who grinned when she saw her daddy coming to get her. Change Rosie into a fresh nappy. Peel her out of her pajamas and dress her in suitable warm clothes before carrying her downstairs. Realize he had forgotten her blanket and doll and dash back upstairs for them. Carry her downstairs again and place her in the highchair. Put the kettle on to boil. Scatter some circular cereal onto the platter for Rosie to eat, a move that always made him feel as if he were feeding a duck at the park. Then, breakfast.

The trip to the shop earlier in the week had been fortuitous. All the necessary ingredients were in- bread, bacon, eggs, milk, cheese, beans. There were so many different things he could fix.

Not for himself. He didn’t think he’d be able to eat anything, his stomach roiling, and he took a deep, deep breath in before whooshing it all out.

Movement. He needed activity to keep him busy. It gave him something to think about instead of last night.

Sherlock had left John asleep in his bed, burrowed under the covers until only the top of his hair stuck out from the quilt. John wasn’t wearing anything under the sheets, not a stitch of clothing, so he was cold and instinctively sought out warmth. Sherlock had wanted to stay with him. The bed had been so cozy and warm, John’s body close to his, providing heat and momentary comfort.. He’d watched John sleep for a few minutes, loathe to abandon him, but knew he was deluding himself, and under the circumstances…

* * *

 

John’s hands were everywhere, not wanting to lose the slightest bit of contact with Sherlock as they fell onto his bed. Sherlock pulled at John’s jumper and he leaned up long enough to yank it over his head- Sherlock took the opportunity to scoot up onto the bed properly- and John dropped it to the floor then he was back, climbing after Sherlock and lowering himself over him, kissing him and Sherlock strained upward into the contact. His hands were on Sherlock, everywhere, running over him greedily and licking into his mouth in a way that Sherlock struggled to keep up with but made him go breathless.

John was heavy on top of him, even holding up his weight with his hands and Sherlock loved it. The weight bore him down deliciously, and he hesitated only a moment, worried he would be too bold, before tentatively rolling his hips up into John, pressing his hardness against his hip. John swore and mimicked the move, grinding against Sherlock.

* * *

 

Sherlock cracked the eggs- one, two, three- into a bowl, tossing the shells into the trash. He whisked the eggs with a vengeance, his ears going pink. He added salt and pepper to the bowl and whisked some more. A little cream. The eggs began turning frothy. He frowned at them.

Was that right?

* * *

 

“Is this all right?”

Anything John did would be all right.

“Yes. John.” Sherlock’s pulse thrummed as he frotted, John’s lips on his neck with a hint of teeth. It was enough to make Sherlock’s stomach tighten and create a sense of urgency every time John thrust against him. Sherlock’s cock was trapped in his trousers and the pleasure was muted through the layers of fabric, but it was still enough. More than enough. He could come like this, surrounded by John, being kissed and pressed and overwhelmed. He was already close and they’d barely done anything but John was kissing him again and John was hard too, which added its own sort of thrill, thrusting his erection against Sherlock’s, bearing down on him with more and more force.

But maybe that wasn’t what John wanted? It was doubtful John would want or expect penetration or more...adventurous things, so early in their relationship, but there were other things on offer. And if Sherlock let himself come now, he’d ruin their evening and he didn’t want this to stop. He wanted to keep John like this as long as he could.

* * *

 

Flip the stove on and set the pan on the hob. Adjust the settings so he wouldn’t burn down the flat and then check on Rosie who was still gnashing at her cereal, throwing more of it in the floor than in her mouth, but she was entertained and Sherlock didn’t have the heart to tell her to stop.

Not that morning.

Eggs were poured in the pan and Sherlock pushed them around, wondering when John would be awake.

* * *

 

He rolled to the side, pushing John and turning them over, reversing their positions so John was on his back and Sherlock was over him and Sherlock….didn’t know what to do. He froze for a moment, all the various choices speeding through his mind- but he knew John liked the direct approach and so he daringly slipped his hand between them and cupped John’s erection through his jeans.

John’s mouth fell open and he groaned as Sherlock massaged what he couldn’t see and John groaned again. Copying what John had done, Sherlock angled his head, kissing John’s neck where stubble scratched his lips and John grabbed at him, hands on Sherlock back, shoulders, lifting his hips up into Sherlock’s hand in blatant invitation.

John seemed just as excited as Sherlock, which, Sherlock supposed, was only natural. He didn’t flatter himself that John’s arousal was all because of him. John hadn’t been with anyone since Mary, and even before that he and Mary had stopped engaging in marital relations. John had become irritable without a constant partner, used to having one, and now he was rock hard in his jeans from relatively tame foreplay. It was gratifying to know John was able to get hard with him though. Sherlock eased the zip down, careful not to catch sensitive flesh in the teeth, the metallic sound loud with promise in the dark.

John lifted his hips and Sherlock pushed his jeans and pants down together, the fluid movement one of the most erotic he’d seen, John’s hips moving, flexing, and then back down again, revealing his cock which was hard against his stomach. Sherlock stared, freezing again because. There was John’s cock. Right there. He was expected to do something with it, but what? His eyes darted to the side, embarrassed and John whispered “Sherlock.” and turned Sherlock’s face away from his groin and kissed him, tangling their tongues together briefly and Sherlock shyly, unsure if he would be welcome or not, splayed his fingers around John’s bare hip.

“Oh…fuck….”

John’s skin was hot. He could feel muscle twitching beneath his fingertips and John’s fingers were in Sherlock’s hair, tugging harder, as Sherlock’s hand crept downward and wrapped around John’s cock.

* * *

 

Sherlock tried to flatten his hair. He could feel it sticking up in odd places, even after he’d showered and he realized he should have at least combed it. He was halfway through the eggs though and he couldn’t just stop. They’d need breakfast. It was the most important meal of the day after all. Wasn’t that what everyone was always saying? And John would be in a better mood if there was a good breakfast- not that Sherlock expected him to be cross. 

Food would give them something to look at besides each other and avoid any...unpleasantness.

* * *

 

John’s cock was blood warm in Sherlock’s hand and he grasped it firmly, stroking slowly, letting the skin slip through his fingers with no resistance. He wasn’t sure what John liked and he wanted to make this good, make John glad he’d done this and not regret choosing Sherlock. He didn’t know if he was doing well or not though. John had stopped kissing him, his mouth lax and open against Sherlock’s, his brow furrowed like he was in pain and Sherlock wondered if John wanted a lighter touch. He moved his hand, loosening his grip, and John moaned, his length noticeably hardening in his palm.

“Oh, god... _Sherlock_.” John breathed and it encouraged Sherlock to keep going. John’s hips started to twitch the tiniest bit upward, chasing the sensation, and Sherlock tightened his hand again, wanted to give him more of it.

* * *

 

The batter for the pancakes was ready but the pan wasn’t hot enough.

Sherlock turned switches, peering to see what was on and what wasn’t. Every place on the stove was currently occupied, something good sizzling away in pots and pans, and he reluctantly set the batter aside. It would have to wait until later. He turned his attention to the peppers and onions, slicing them quickly and tossing them in the pan with the omelettes. They hissed in the hot oil and Rosie started, looking to see what was happening that was so interesting.

* * *

 

John pushed Sherlock’s hand away from his cock, laughing shakily and Sherlock’s stomach dropped.

“Did I do it wrong?” He’d done what he thought John would maybe like, based on his own personal experience of what he himself liked- but John was different and probably wanted something with more variety and edge.

“Sherlock. No. Fuck, no. That was perfect.” John held Sherlock’s hand when he tried to pull away and gave him a smile which somewhat calmed Sherlock’s fears. John’s thumb brushed against the back of Sherlock’s hand, sweeping against his skin and he didn’t know if John was trying to offer comfort or arouse him further. At the moment, it was both.

“You’re sure?” Sherlock couldn’t help but ask. “I know it may not be what you’re used to, but I could-”

“No. I mean, yes. Please. I want anything you’ll offer, yeah? But...I think you have an unfair advantage here.”

Bemused, Sherlock looked around, at the bed and table, then back at John who, naked, was gorgeously laid out on his bed, and the sight of him there, in Sherlock’s own bed, smiling and flushed and hard was...fascinating. “I don’t…”

John took pity on him. He squeezed his hand then let it go, plucking at the buttons on Sherlock’s shirt demonstrably. “It’s your turn.”

“Oh.” Sherlock blushed and this time his stomach dropped all the way to the floor. Of course John would want him naked. He was a partner who enjoyed giving as much as receiving which, while intriguing in theory, meant that at some point Sherlock would have to disrobe.“Are you sure you want…? I mean...it won’t...ruin the experience for you?”

John was all gold skin and soft angles and chunky thighs and Sherlock was...himself. Lean limbs and a flat chest with awkward angles and legs that were too long in situations like this which weren’t balanced by his too broad shoulders or his skinny arms.

“What?” John’s hand stopped fiddling with Sherlock’s buttons, and he frowned.“What do you mean...ruin?”

“Nothing.” Sherlock started undoing the buttons, flicking them one by one until John’s hands came up and stopped him.

“Can I?” He asked and when Sherlock nodded, he gave him a long, wonderful kiss. Sherlock was glad he’d agreed. “Sherlock. I’ve wanted to see you naked since the first day we met.” Buttons opened while Sherlock watched, hypnotized. He liked the idea of John having lecherous thoughts about him. “I’ve wanted to see you naked every day for the past four years.” Buttons ended where his shirt was still tucked into his trousers, but John pulled at the fabric and it slipped free. “If we do this, and god I want to.” More buttons opened. John spread Sherlock’s shirt to either side, baring his chest. The air was cold against his skin and his nipples hardened, gooseflesh raising hairs. “I have to see you naked. Please?”

Sherlock nodded, yes that, he wanted that too and John tried to push Sherlock’s shirt off but Sherlock stopped him, the fabric bunched around his shoulders, pitching forward to kiss him instead, the perfect distraction as he shrugged the shirt back on and then everything was a sudden blur- John’s hands at the front of Sherlock’s trousers, zip going down quickly and then he pushed them down over the swell of Sherlock’s arse, grabbing it. Sherlock hadn’t expected that and he gasped, high-pitched, shocked. John laughed, kissing his chest as he tugged Sherlock’s trousers the rest of the way off, his pants lost somewhere in the fabric.

Sherlock experienced a flash of panic- there and gone- when his legs were exposed to the cold, a breeze rifling through the hairs that tugged him back to a place where he’d also been undressed roughly, bared in a freezing room, his genitals soft between his legs and his hands tied, unable to stop someone callously fondling him-

He yelped when John touched his cock without warning, recoiling and shoving himself up the bed so fast he left John kneeling with his hand still outstretched, frozen in shock.

“Sherlock-?”

“Sorry. That’s. Oh god. I’m sorry.” Sherlock stammered, heart pounding from fear but slowly he was realizing what a stupid mistake he’d made and the fear was pushed out, making room for shame and self-recrimination. It was just John. John had touched him. He wanted John to touch him. He'd been all but begged him to. Then, he’d acted like an idiot, thinking John was someone else and ruining everything. It was over.

“I’m sorry.” He forced out, clenching his eyes closed in abject mortification because he couldn’t explain what was wrong, and he wouldn’t because then John would feel sorry for him and what had been freely given would become a duty. Sherlock cringed, his one time with John and he couldn’t even make it through without messing it up in some stupid way. He was a grown man for godssakes not a wilting, innocent _freak_.

“I’m so sorry, Sherlock.”

Startled, Sherlock opened his eyes, taking in the sight of John looking guilty, kneeling on the bed with the sheets bunched around him, hiding his lap from Sherlock where, Sherlock could tell, John had gone soft. Well of course he had. Who wanted a sexual partner who literally shoved them away when they touched them?

“I’m so sorry.” John said again, moving to sit at the edge of the bed, away from Sherlock and giving him space.

“Why are you sorry?” Sherlock was the one who had ruined everything, any chance he ever had with John gone.

“I shouldn’t have…” John shook his head. He looked so resigned and disappointed that Sherlock’s heart leapt in panic. It was to be expected, though. John didn’t want him anymore. Sherlock had made him come to his senses.

John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t right. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“I wanted you to.” And he had. He really had wanted John to touch him. It had just...gone wrong.

“I know but...I went too fast tonight. Way too fast.” John glanced at Sherlock, huddled against the headboard, and gave him sad smile. “I should have known better than to just...I dunno what I was thinking. Wasn’t thinking, actually.”

Sherlock didn’t know what to say. What John said had merit. Maybe he wouldn’t have reacted like he had, if it hadn’t been so sudden. He had enjoyed everything up until that point.. He didn’t want John feeling guilty though.

“I’m sorry.” John said again. “I am. Listen, I know you don’t want...not anymore, so I’ll just…” He motioned to the door and started to get up, to leave. Sherlock knew if John left now, it was over. They’d never get back to this again. He couldn’t stand that. He wanted this.

He wanted it so much.

“Please don’t.” Sherlock stopped him, one hand on John’s arm, keeping him on the bed. “John. I don’t want to stop.”

* * *

 

The toast burned, acrid smoke filling the kitchen, making Rosie cough and Sherlock’s eyes water. He opened the window over the sink, fanning out the grey smoke with a flannel into the cold December air. The fresh air helped to clear his head, his cheeks slapped with wind cold as ice, and he took a moment to fill his lungs with it, letting it wash over him.

He set the plates on the table, Rosie and John on one side, Sherlock opposite. It was hard to find space around all the food but Sherlock managed. He wondered when John would wake up. Wouldn’t be much longer now.

* * *

 

If what John had done earlier was too fast, how he touched Sherlock now was the extreme opposite. He came back to bed and it was different because they were both almost naked- Sherlock kept his unbuttoned shirt on and John didn’t ask him to remove it- but John didn’t reach and grab or pull. They lay beside each other, as close as possible but a safe space between their hips even though Sherlock didn’t think it mattered now. The mood was gone, they were both soft and he’d probably still ruined things. His heart beat, each pump painful which doubled when John cupped his face, thumb gliding over his cheek.

“Can I kiss you?” He asked and Sherlock nodded, yes, please, and John, watching him the whole time, gently slid his lips over Sherlock’s, slow and unhurried, and the desire Sherlock thought had been effectively killed fluttered weakly in the pit of his stomach again. He knew John felt him shiver but he didn’t press forward or take advantage of it. He cupped Sherlock’s cheek with his other hand, achingly tender, cradling him between his palms, and kissed him as if he had all the time in the world.

This time, it was Sherlock who deepened the kiss, after long minutes of kissing John and needing more than the kisses which swelled and broke over him in waves of arousal. It was Sherlock who opened his mouth and licked at John’s closed lips until he let him inside because he wanted to feel the spark of desire that flared every time he was touched and he felt John respond.

“Where do you want me to kiss you?” John’s voice was husky in the dark and Sherlock licked his lips, tasting John on them, thinking.

“My...neck?” He asked. “Earlier that was...nice.”

John kissed his cheek, his jaw, his chin, going back up to press a kiss against his lips as if he couldn’t help himself, then trailing back down as he kissed his way to Sherlock’s neck. There was no hint of teeth this time, sharp pleasure or needy nips. Soft suction against Sherlock’s sensitive skin, not enough to hurt but Sherlock felt it all the way down his body and he moaned, unable to catch the sound before it escaped. John’s breath hitched, his lips paused in the hollow of Sherlock’s throat, body frozen...before he relaxed, breath sighing out, pressing another sweeping kiss against Sherlock’s rapidly beating pulse, the tickle of his tongue up to Sherlock’s ear, then drawing the earlobe into his mouth.

Sherlock was speechless, breathing ragged even when he tried to suppress it, but it didn’t feel bad. He was in control and he knew what John would do next which was nothing unless he encouraged or asked him himself. He twined his arms around John’s shoulders, tugging him closer, hands balled into fists behind John’s head as each new touch elicited a new sensation. Earlier had been fun. Wonderfully exciting in the raw passion of it, but it didn’t compare, was worlds apart, to this deliberate, gentle seduction, being the focus of all John’s devoted attention.

A kiss to his ear. Another at the hinge of his jaw. Sherlock was hard again and when he glanced down, he was relieved to see that John was as well but he hadn’t even known. He’d just assumed John wouldn’t like this as much as he did. But John laved at the skin beneath Sherlock’s ear and every time he did, Sherlock gasped, and he watched John’s cock twitch in time to his every breath.

He wanted to be touched again while John kissed him like this. He wanted John’s hands on him, somewhere, but he knew John wouldn’t without prodding. Shoring up his own courage, Sherlock found John’s hand and drew it to him. John let him do it without resistance, and Sherlock placed it on his bare hip. John’s hand curved around his flesh, fingers mapping the skin they’d been placed on and skimming up just a bit, a few inches up and then down, but not gripping. The touches were light, delicate enough that they almost tickled and Sherlock’s cock thickened, fists tightening as the feelings spiraled higher from the innocent touch and he throbbed with it.

“ _John_.” He breathed and he heard John moan against his neck, his body undulating against the bed.

“Oh my god.” John whispered shakily, head coming up so he could kiss Sherlock and this kiss wasn’t as slow, there was heat and fire behind it and John tried to draw away but every time he fell back into their kiss urgently, like he couldn’t stop. That was fine with Sherlock- more than fine- because he wanted more. He _needed_.

He shifted on the bed, restless, his cock wanting attention but John’s hand was still moving over the swell of his hip which, now, was a tease, so close to where Sherlock wanted him. He wanted him to move. He wanted….he wanted…

Moaning, he grabbed John’s hand and brought it down between them, between his legs, his stomach swooping when he deliberately wrapped John’s hand around his cock. John sucked in a sharp breath and Sherlock, for his part, trembled when he removed his hand and John’s stayed, rough and warm, slightly sweaty, and perfect.

“What do you want?” John asked, strained, and Sherlock tried to think. It was hard with John’s hand around him and he felt his cock throb.

“If you don’t want to, I understand. I do.” Sherlock said. John needed to know he wasn’t obligated. “But…I..I want you to...” He couldn’t actually say it. The words stalled in his throat. There was no possible way he could give voice to the act, but mercifully, John understood what he meant and his hand passed over Sherlock’s cock on the first, slow stroke.

* * *

 

Once the water was boiled, Sherlock placed the tea in the way John usually did and set it aside to steep. His fingers traced over his neck where there was no discernable sign left behind, nothing to suggest what he and John had done last night. There were no bruises or marks, but Sherlock felt marked, changed, even if he couldn’t see it.

He felt it.

There was noise down the hall, the sounds of someone stirring, and Sherlock readied himself, squaring his shoulders and swallowing nervously. John was awake. It was time to face the morning after.

He’d never had a morning after before. What was the right protocol? Was the sex mentioned or avoided? Were they affectionate with each other, or distant? Was what had happened in the bedroom to stay in the bedroom, and not spill over into their regular lives?

Sherlock thought he could manage that. He wouldn’t like it at first but, he decided resolutely, if that meant he got to keep John...

* * *

 

John hadn’t opened his eyes yet, but he knew where he was without needing to see. There was no confusing moment where he didn’t, not sure why he wasn’t in his own bed and why his sheets were suddenly so much softer than normal. He was in Sherlock’s bed and he remembered how he got there...

* * *

 

Sherlock looked debauched with just his shirt on, unbuttoned to reveal his chest which rose and fell rapidly, in time with the motions of John’s hand on his cock. It felt especially sinful as Sherlock writhed against him because John was completely naked and the juxtaposition of posh cloth rubbing on his naked skin every time they kissed was wonderful.

John squeezed the flesh he held in his hand, precome slick under his fingers, and Sherlock made an abortive sound, thrusting slightly before settling again. He was trying to be quiet. His lips were pressed together until they were almost white and his forehead was furrowed with effort, but his breathing betrayed him, breath huffed through his nose, anxious and fast.

It was the most wonderful thing John had ever seen.

He was in agony.

His cock twitched, pleading for attention but he hadn’t touched himself once, not since they’d started again. He wanted this to be about Sherlock. All about Sherlock and his pleasure and how good John could make him feel because after his fuck up earlier- too fast, what the fuck had he been thinking? This was Sherlock he knew he should have gone slower- he needed to make it up to him. Sherlock deserved better for what John was starting to suspect may be his first time which, although probably ridiculous, made his cock jerk harder.

God. The _sounds_ Sherlock was making. The way he was reacting to John’s every little touch. John’s cock dripped onto his stomach and when Sherlock thrust again, clearly unable to help himself, he couldn’t stop himself from moaning, mimicking him. He was going to die from this. John couldn’t look away, though.

“ _Sherlock_.”

Sherlock’s eyes flew open, muscles tensing, his cock growing impossibly harder in John’s hand and he didn’t need Sherlock’s slightly panicked gasp to know-

“Oh-! J-John! I’m…”

“God, _yes_. Come, Sherlock. I want to see it, want to see you come.” John kept stroking him, as fast as he could with the awkward angle between them and Sherlock couldn’t suppress his moans anymore, agitated, hips jerking. John panted along with him, arousal heavy in his balls which drew up as Sherlock whispered “ _oh oh oh_ ” his voice climbing higher with each one- and then he was coming, thick and fast, warmth coating John’s hand and dripping onto the sheets while Sherlock made the most lovely sounds John had ever heard. And he couldn’t wait any longer. It was too much. Before he’d even stopped stroking Sherlock, John was touching himself, groaning with relief and giving his own cock the contact he’d craved, jacking himself quickly because his orgasm was already so close-

“Ah!” He jerked his hips away at the last second, not wanting to come on Sherlock, and came on the sheets, moaning brokenly. When he opened his eyes Sherlock was staring at him, eyes looking down at John’s spent cock, a string of come still spooling onto the sheets, and then skidding away when their eyes met almost...shyly.

“Are you...was that okay?” John tried to touch Sherlock’s face but saw his hand was covered in their come and lowered it.

“Yes. Everything’s perfect.”

* * *

 

John couldn’t be blamed for walking into the loo with a bounce in his step, grinning because he and Sherlock had spent the night together and it has been fantastic. Like nothing he could have imagined. He’d messed up a bit at the first, but he thought things had gone well afterwards. His muscles felt loose, the previous night’s orgasm one of the best he’d ever had, and he hummed while he showered, taking the time to shave, and dressed before walking into the kitchen...and what he saw stopped him dead.

There were plates of eggs on the table made four different ways, some still freshly steaming. Kippers, bacon, and some sort of other meat John couldn’t identify filled the air with a mouthwatering aroma and a glass bowl of John’s favorite kind of beans and a stack of toast teetered in the middle of the table with butter, jam, and marmalade on the offering. There were pancakes, richly scented and golden brown, and the bottle of maple syrup had been heated in its little glass jar, ready for use. John stared at all the food. Sherlock had to have cleaned out their whole fridge to make all of it.

“If it’s not enough I thought I might do something with the potatoes. Fry them up…” Sherlock pointed to where he had washed and peeled a few potatoes and left them draining on the sideboard.

John shook his head. “No, that’s…You…made all this?”

Sherlock fidgeted, nodding, hands clasped in front of him when they wouldn’t stop moving. “Yes. Well. It just sort of…happened.”

John looked back at the table, veritably sagging under the weight of all the food and dishes and delicacies. The agitated efforts of Sherlock’s morning. He hadn’t even been up that long, surely. No more than an hour before John…

_A full tray of fancy napkins done up to look like swans. Why swans? John didn’t even like swans. They were pissy, hateful animals that attacked without warning. And they hissed. There was nothing romantic about swans._

_But there were so many of the napkin swans- swans spilling over the chairs and table and armchairs, anywhere they could safely be put. Sherlock had made them faster than John could keep up and Mary had been amused._

_“He’s scared.”_

_“He’s not scared. What’s Sherlock scared of?”_

_“He’s afraid things will change.”_

_“Why would things change?” John thought it was ridiculous, what Mary was saying. Sherlock didn’t get scared and even if he did, it wouldn’t be over things changing._

_But there had been so many swans._

There was so much food.

It suddenly didn’t seem that appealing, now John realized the reason behind it. What had smelled good earlier turned his stomach and he looked back at Sherlock who had taken up a knife, while John was still in quandary, and set about cutting up the potatoes in careful, precise wedges. The knife thunked, thunked, thunked against the cutting board in rapid bursts, distress marked in Sherlock’s every move.

John moved around the table, giving Rosie a kiss on her head as he went, picking a piece of cereal off her forehead, and watched Sherlock cut up the rest of the potatoes. Sherlock pretended he wasn’t there, which gave John time to think of what to say, and how to say it without sounding like a moron.

He looked up just in time to catch Sherlock stealthily glancing at him from the corner of his eyes, pink-cheeked. Not as unaware of John as he thought.

“Sherlock.” John started, but Sherlock’s knife thunked even more rapidly through the potatoes.

“Sherlock, we don’t need those.” John tried to sound as gentle as he could and Sherlock’s knife stopped halfway through a slice.

“What else do you want? I can do anything.”

A telling slip. John smiled ruefully, carefully taking the knife from Sherlock and dropping it in the sink. He cajoled Sherlock into reluctantly turning around, and then he tipped Sherlock’s head to the side and pressed a kiss against his pretty lips. “Good morning.”

Sherlock blinked at him, looking so confused it almost broke John’s heart.

“Sherlock, I don’t want anything else. Okay? You don’t need to do anything special for me or try...and...and impress me or…Whatever you do is fine. Whatever.”

Sherlock blinked some more, then frowned. “We’re…not talking about breakfast anymore…are we?”

John chuckled, interlacing their fingers together and Sherlock’s eyes dropped to stare at them as if he’d never seen hands before. “No. We aren’t talking about breakfast anymore. But do you understand what I mean?”

Sherlock opened his mouth, frowned, then closed it again. “You mean…that I’m…”

“Perfect.“

“- _enough_?”

There had been two times in John’s life when his heart had completely shattered. Once, when he had almost died in Afghanistan, but that had been more literally than metaphorical. The second, when he saw Sherlock step off the edge of St. Bart’s.

Neither of those instances prepared John for the way his heart broke that early morning in December. Neither experience had prepared him for the soul-crushing, consuming pain of that one little word from Sherlock’s mouth when Sherlock should have known- he should have known but John had done a piss poor job of showing him- that he was important to him. And he had done that, he had made Sherlock believe, through all his actions and words, that he wasn’t good enough. No, it hadn’t been just him and there had been others over the years to teach Sherlock the same lesson, but above anyone else _John_ should have been the person who didn’t.

And he had.

“Of course you are.” John managed. Sherlock watched him as if he were waiting for John to take it all back, weary but hopeful. “Of course, you’re more than enough. You’ve always-” He broke off, clenching his jaw, angry at himself. “You’ve always been enough. Even if I didn’t...say it. You were.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything, processing what John had just said, and John knew when he’d assimilated it, chosen to believe at least some of it was fact, when Sherlock’s eyes dropped to his lips and hesitantly, clearly thinking John would push him away, he leaned down for a chaste kiss. John let him lead it, and when Sherlock stepped away, he was red-faced and beautiful.

“Da!” Rosie tossed the rest of her cereal on the floor and banged her fists on her platter. Sherlock jumped, breaking out of whatever mood he’d been in.

“Rosie wants her breakfast.”

“Clearly. Well. There’s more than enough.” John observed. “This all looks amazing by the way. I’ll run downstairs and get Mrs. Hudson. We can’t all of us eat this-“

“I wouldn’t bother, John.” Sherlock said, seating himself at the table and spreading butter on a piece of toast with careful, precise movements, giving it his full attention.

“Why?”

“Because last night she…-“

The sound of deep, masculine laughter echoed up the stairs, followed by Mrs. Hudson’s giggle and the shutting of the downstairs door. The tips of Sherlock’s ears turned red and John laughed, tucking into his own breakfast with enthusiasm.


	14. Day 14- Hot Baths

Rosie loved long, hot relaxing baths- an affinity she unknowingly got from her father- and her favorite end to any day involved the huge tub in the loo, warm water topped with no less than two inches of bubble bath, pink was preferred, a small army of toys floating around her, and both her daddies in attendance to make sure the drain monster didn’t kidnap her and take her Down Below.

Most nights, there was only one daddy and while Rosie enjoyed her baths then too, it was better with both. That night, there were two daddies in the loo with her and Rosie was the happiest little girl in London. She just didn’t know it.

Her fluffy daddy sat on the floor, propped back against the wall and knees bent, and her other daddy sat on the closed lid of the toilet which she didn’t know how to use yet. Daddy had told Rosie she would start learning soon, but Rosie had pretended she hadn’t heard him. As of yet, she was still in nappies and Rosie didn’t know why she couldn’t live the rest of her life in them.

The toilet scared her. It was big and loud and if there was a drain monster in the tub, and that was a small hole where the water drained, what sort of monster would live in the toilet which had more water and a larger opening? Rosie didn’t want to find out.

She firmly decided she would never learn how to use the toilet. She didn’t think her fluffy daddy would make her anyway. He gave her everything she wanted.

Rosie played in her bubbles for a while, lumping them all together before slapping them back down. Her daddies let her carry on while they talked to each other. She didn’t pay any attention to them. They never talked about anything interesting, like princesses, coloring books, or biscuits. She didn’t understand what they talked about, but it seemed nice because her fluffy daddy was smiling and her other daddy looked happy which made Rosie happy too and she squealed and flapped her hands hard, splashing water everywhere- the walls, floor, and herself.

“Rosie!” Daddy jumped up from his seat, linen at the ready, sopping up the water and giving Rosie a Look.

She quieted, looking back down at her bubbles, letting them run through her fingers and tried to let daddy know she was sorry. She didn’t want to get out of the tub yet. She hadn’t even played with her new toy.

Daddy sat back down again, and Rosie knew she was safe. She brightened instantly and rummaged in the water for the little ship her fluffy daddy had given her. She squeezed the pirate ship like daddy had shown her, filling it’s soft plastic hull with water, and then pressed it so all the water was fired from the small cannons.

“Boo!” She skipped the small ship over the water, back and forth in wide, quick arches, pretending the bubbles were a thick fog, like she’d seen on the cartoon once, and the ship had to make it through without being attacked. A rubber duck and the plastic Chew-bac-ca which Rosie didn’t know what was and her daddy had said wasn’t a good toy for her but it was one of her favorites- ambushed the ship, trying to tear it apart.

Rosie screamed, scaring herself, quickly loading the torpedoes and firing the ship over and over at the enemies. Chew-bac-ca slipped out of sight beneath the bubbles and Rosie celebrated the victory by sucking up more water with her pirate ship, waiting until daddy was looking at her other daddy, and then squeezing the water out of the toy as hard as she could.

“Rosie!” Daddy jumped up again, this time dripping water, and gave her an Angry Look. “What do you think you’re doing, miss?”

He was angry with her. Rosie didn’t know why she’d done that. She knew she would get in trouble before she even did it, but it had seemed so funny to squirt daddy with water. She’d wanted to do it. And she’d thought daddy would laugh too.

Daddy wasn’t laughing, but her fluffy daddy was, just a bit. Heartened, Rosie grinned hard, wrinkling her nose and almost squinting her eyes closed from the effort. She grinned up at daddy who still looked angry, so she scooped up a handful of thick, pink bubbles and held them up. A peace offering.

“Keep your bubbles, love.” He smiled at her and Rosie knew she was forgiven. Just in case it was a trick, she watched daddy walk across the loo, standing close to where fluffy daddy was still sitting. He smiled at him too, reaching down to touch his hair.

“Thought that was funny?”

They were back to being boring, so Rosie started playing again. The new doll from the Christmas tree dove in and out of the water, rising from the waves with a headful of bubbles. The doll was a perfect little model of her favorite princess, with long, long blonde hair and a purple dress. Petting the doll, Rosie scrubbed the hair, trying to mimic how daddy washed her hair, working the soap into a lather.

All she accomplished was tangling the doll’s pretty hair. The strands snarled around her fingers and wouldn’t let go, even when she shook them. The doll was attached to her and she did not like that.

Upset, Rosie turned for help. Daddy was sitting on the floor with fluffy daddy and their faces were touching. Rosie whined. They should be paying attention to her, not each other.

She cried and daddy moved towards her, shushing her and reaching to de-knot the doll’s hair. Even when she was free, Rosie was upset because the once pretty hair was a sodden mess. Fluffy daddy took it from her, promising to fix it and Rosie sniffled, feeling comforted. Fluffy daddy could do anything.

The water was starting to get cold so Rosie consented to being washed, daddy scrubbing at her with a flannel while she tried to watch what her other daddy was doing at the sink, his back turned. She hoped he wasn’t cutting her doll’s hair. He had once, when Rosie had stuck candies in one of her doll’s hair, and nothing could remove them. The doll had almost been bald by the end and Rosie learned a hard lesson about haircare.

She twisted around, trying to see, but daddy kept intercepting her, lathering her arms and chest and back. She started to get annoyed. She was already clean. She had been in the tub so long her fingers were wrinkly. She tried pushing daddy away, but he wouldn’t stop. He started washing her hair and Rosie huffed, scowling to let him know she was mad and pushing out her lip.

Daddy didn’t stop washing her, but he did smile again which, as he rinsed her hair and picked her up from the tub, Rosie decided was okay.

She was toweled dry, lotioned, powdered, and put in a nappy. Then daddy was telling her to step into her pajamas which Rosie did, letting daddy help her, guiding her feet into the right places. Balance was hard.

“Rosie.”

Her doll! Fluffy daddy handed it to Rosie, good as new, with the hair untangled and freshly brushed. It wasn’t even wet anymore but warm and shiny and Rosie screamed, jumping up and down when he handed it to her. She hugged it, then hugged fluffy daddy, clinging to his leg as hard as she could to let him know how happy she was. He petted her head and Rosie closed her eyes, happy and content.

She was allowed to open another door in the Christmas tree. This one gave her a teeny, tiny book, big enough to fit in her hands.

Rosie was disappointed. She didn’t know how to read, but when daddy knelt down and opened it, showing her the pages, she was excited again.

There were no words in the book. Just pictures. Lots and lots of pictures of beautiful princesses in beautiful dresses. Rosie turned the pages as fast as she could, eyes wide as each new one revealed prettier and prettier things. Some of the pages had glitter on them, others were glossy with a high shine that gleamed in the Christmas lights. She wriggled, so happy she couldn’t contain it. She tried to hold the little book the way daddy did, feeling very big and important with her own book that she could understand.

She sat by the Christmas tree and looked at her book, still holding her doll, not caring what her daddies were doing which she was sure would be boring anyway. She looked through the book so many times, enraptured, until her eyes were blurry and kept closing when she didn’t want them to.

Her daddies were across the room, on the sofa together, and fluffy daddy was touching her other daddy’s face. Rosie wondered if something were wrong with him.

She pushed herself up, carrying her book and doll, and trotted over to the sofa, grunting so they would notice her which they quickly did. Daddy scooped her up, settling Rosie on his lap and she leaned against his chest, ready to sleep.

“Are you tired, sweetheart?”

Rosie nodded and daddy kissed the top of her head. He and fluffy daddy talk for a bit more, so long Rosie thought she was never going to get put to bed, but finally daddy stood and carried her to the crib in the corner of the room. It had a thick, padded bottom, quilted, and all of Rosie’s favorite soft toys were already in there. Daddy laid her down, settling things around her, making sure her pillow was in the right position, and Rosie let him turn her this way and that because she was too tired to protest. She didn’t know why he wasn’t taking her upstairs to her bed, but this just meant she could sleep quicker. Her soft purple blanket was pulled up around her shoulders and she closed her eyes, doll held to her chest.

Her daddies kept talking for a while, then everything went quiet. Rosie blinked her eyes open. All the lights were off but the Christmas lights were still on all around the room, giving everything a pretty glow and making Rosie feel like she was in a fairy palace. The tree glowed as well, casting multicolored lights into even the darkest corners. She hugged her doll tighter and watched the lights blink and glow, warm and comfortable and perfectly content in every way.

A noise drew her attention and she raised up to see what it was. Her daddies were walking down the hallway, close and touching their faces again. Rosie didn’t care. She laid back down, snuggling under her blanket and fell asleep before the bedroom door shut.


	15. Day 15- Winter Hats and Mittens

“When did you say Sherlock was meeting us?”

John had to lean down to hear Mrs. Hudson’s reply over the clamor of voices. The shopping mall was crowded with what seemed like half the population of London crammed inside, everyone overdressed, overheated, and hungry, trying to comfort crying children while they were annoyed, and intent on getting their Christmas shopping done by the end of day. Soft Christmas music played over the speakers, a pleasant background noise which could barely be heard as thousands of voices blended together in a tidal murmuring.

“I think he said at lunch.” Mrs. Hudson checked her watch, pulling back the sleeve of her coat and sweater, frowning at the little numbers. “He’s just a little late. I’m sure he’s on his way.”

Thirty minutes wasn’t a little. John snorted. “Are you?” He didn’t think Sherlock would actually show up. “No telling what he’s got up to. Probably forgotten all about it.”

It was a disingenuous thought, but John could somewhat be forgiven after the morning he’d had.

The shopping trip hadn’t been his idea. Not even close. If it were up to him, he would have just ordered everyone’s presents online, never gone anywhere near the mall, and been done with it. But Mrs. Hudson had cajoled and wheedled and pleaded, then finally outright threatened, for John and Rosie to go shopping with her that Saturday.

Saturdays were the busiest days for a mall during the regular course of business anyway. Add to that the fact that Christmas was 9 days away, this was the first nice day London had seen in a while, the temperatures finally warming and melting most of the snow, and everyone was able to get out and about again…and it was chaos.

The shops were packed with people buying presents and John, Rosie, and Mrs. Hudson bravely joined the throng. They’d left Rosie’s pushchair at the flat (she’d recently started insisting on walking on her own, and they needed to encourage her independence) but John carried the nappy bag with nappies, creams, cloths, extra clothes, snacks, drinks, and a few choice toys.

“Hold my hand.” He said sternly as soon as they got out of the cab in front of the mall. “Don’t let go, understand?”

Rosie had nodded, but John didn’t trust her. A crowded mall would be the perfect place for Rosie to do a runner and they’d never find her in a crowd this size. In precaution, that morning John had dressed Rosie in her most vibrant clothes: bright purple shirt and yellow skirt, hot pink leggings, and an orange knit cap.

“She looks like a walking fashion disaster, John.” Sherlock had scolded that morning over breakfast, eyeing Rosie’s clothes reproachfully. “Why didn’t you put her in the purple skirt? It matches that shirt. Or, if you wanted the pink leggings since it’s cold, why not the glittery gold sweater? And that hat…”

“Because she’s two and anyway, it doesn’t matter. She doesn’t care about her clothes. Look, she isn’t even aware.”

Rosie paused mid-shovel, a bite of pancake halfway in her mouth, wondering why her daddies were both looking at her. Sherlock’s eyes flicked from the shirt to the knit cap and his reproachful look turned even more disapproving.

“It _matters_ ,” he said, slowly, as if he were explaining this to a moron, “because Rosie does care about her clothes- most of the time- it’s only just this morning she’s had a lapse in judgment. You know she requires everything she owns to be that certain shade of purple. And,” he continued when John rolled his eyes, “it matters because other people will see her looking like a…like a….” Here Sherlock trailed off, unable to accurately describe what hideous thing Rosie looked like, but John had assumed it would not have been good.

“Look. I know what you mean, and you know,” John reminded Sherlock, “that I always dress Rosie…nicely.”

One of Sherlock’s eyebrows twitched upward in tacit disagreement, but John decided to let that go. He didn’t want to row with Sherlock before he left.

“But today,” He ground out, more angrily than he wanted and Sherlock’s other eyebrow went up. John made an effort to calm himself. “I don’t give a toss if what she’s wearing is fashionable or not. I don’t care what other people are going to think and say about how I dress my daughter, because we’re going with Mrs. Hudson to a crowded shopping mall for the day, the weekend before Christmas, and dressing Rosie like this is the best thing I can do to make sure I don’t lose her if she runs off. People will look at me a lot worse for losing my daughter than how I dress her, I believe.”

Sherlock still looked critical, but didn’t say that John wouldn’t lose her, because they both knew Rosie and they had both lost her previously, on separate occasions. John’s fear was perfectly reasonable and even if Sherlock didn’t approve of John’s methods, he grudgingly accepted it.

“Between the three of us, I’m sure we can keep an eye on her.”

“Probably. But you won’t be there.”

“I’ll be there.” Sherlock protested. “I’m meeting you for lunch.”

“Yeah, but we’ll have already been there all morning.” John groused, finishing off his breakfast and taking his dishes to the sink, reaching for Sherlock’s as he passed. “We’ll have gone everywhere and bought everything and done everything and sodding-“

Lips against the side of his neck stopped John in the middle of his sentence. He didn’t even remember what he’d been about to say, or what his original point was. His hands tightened on the edge of the worktop as one, two, three innocent butterfly kisses were mouthed up the side of his neck. The skin where Sherlock had touched him tingled. It reminded John of the previous night when, after Rosie had been put to bed in her crib, he and Sherlock had gone to bed too and later, much later, Sherlock had came with his lips on John’s neck and his hand wrapped around both their cocks.

It was a wrenching memory and John didn’t know if Sherlock had meant it that way or not, but John’s body immediately reacted and he was thankful he was turned toward the worktop.

“Sherlock.” He said quietly, a warning, because not in front of Rosie, and a promise, because later. That. Please god.

Sherlock stepped back, contrite. “I’m sorry. That was…but I’ll be there, John. I will. I’ll meet you for lunch. I promise.”

* * *

 

Three hours later, after being elbowed in crowded aisles, having his feet stepped on, tripping over errant children, being given dirty looks, squeezing himself through crowds, changing two of Rosie’s nappies, and going to shop after shop after shop after shop, John was grouchy and hungry and not feeling very well-inclined toward Sherlock- who had still not shown up.

John and Mrs. Hudson were currently stood in queue to see Santa Claus. The mall had hired a jolly fat man who, John hoped, was not secretly a criminal, to play Santa for the children. For a small donation to a local children’s charity, a person could sit their child on Santa’s lap, have them tell everything they wanted for Christmas, and then get a photograph of the happy moment. Most children John had seen leaving Santa had been crying.

The queue was long and full of tired and irritated parents holding their equally tired and irritated children’s hands. Rosie was safe in John’s arms, peering over his shoulder at everyone suspiciously, not trusting the strange crowd. They’d been in queue for a while because Mrs. Hudson wanted the photograph and John secretly believed that no childhood was complete without some sort of terrible photograph of yourself sat in Santa’s lap. He didn’t say it, but he’d rather like to have a picture of Rosie too. He amused himself by watching the kids at the front and trying to decide, before each was sat on Santa’s lap, which would cry or which would behave.

“I’m sure he’ll be here, John.” Mrs. Hudson said again. “Sherlock told me it wouldn’t take longer than a few hours to finish.”

John hummed, not believing Mrs. Hudson’s optimism, then frowned. “Wait. What wouldn’t take longer than a few hours to finish?”

“What?”

“What you just said.”

Mrs. Hudson gave John a blank look. “What are you talking about?”

“You just said,” John said in the calmest voice he could, remembering he was surrounded by children and shouting at elderly ladies was not good, “that Sherlock said _it_ \- whatever _it_ is- wouldn’t take longer than a few hours to finish. What is he doing?”

“I don’t know.” Mrs. Hudson shook her head. “I didn’t say anything like that.”

“I could’ve sworn I heard-“

“It’s too loud in here, John. All these kids running around and crying and you just thought…oh look, Rosie! There’s an elf!”

She pointed out a teenage girl dressed all in green with a bell hat atop her head. “Santa’s helper. Elf!” Rosie dutifully looked, but green wasn’t her favorite color and this girl was clearly not a princess so she wasn’t interested. She went back to staring at everyone around them, engrossed by a little girl behind them who was picking her nose. John patted her back sympathetically, but Rosie didn’t seem bored. If anything, she was interested in everything that was happening, in her own quiet, shy sort of way.

“We’ll be through here in a bit, and then we’ll get some lunch.” Mrs. Hudson tried assuring John and it sort of worked because the idea of eating was good. Sherlock still wasn’t there, though. Skiving off and leaving John to deal with shopping and crowds. John sighed, hitching Rosie higher in his arms into a more comfortable position, and shuffled forward in the queue.

* * *

 

When Mrs. Hudson first asked John to go Christmas shopping with her over the weekend, John politely declined. Mrs. Hudson had not taken ‘no’ for an answer.

“Come on, John. Sherlock told me you haven’t got your Christmas shopping done yet and I need to pick up a few more gifts. And Rosie would love to see all the window displays! They’ve really gone all out this year apparently. They showed a few of them on the telly the other night. Very pretty. All decked out in lights and sparkles, some are Christmas scenes with perfect staging…it’d be fun.”

Spending the day in a crowded mall with a two-year-old didn’t sound like John’s idea of fun. Mrs. Hudson had been indefatigable.

“Oh, please, John? I tell you what: we’ll have a nice lunch during and we can get all our Christmas shopping done in one go. I need some cards too, to send to everyone, and I have to get them tomorrow if I want to get them delivered before Christmas.”

“I dunno…” John’s eyes had strayed across the room to where Sherlock seemed oblivious to their conversation. Rosie was sprawled prone across his lap, legs sticking straight out on one side, her head resting on the sofa on the other. It was an awkward angle and didn’t look like a comfortable position at all, but she was peacefully asleep. Sherlock had propped his laptop on her back and was typing rapidly.

As if he’d known John was looking, Sherlock looked up. Their eyes met and John gave him a small smile. Sherlock’s answering flush and shy smile was enough to make John’s heart pound.

Last night had been amazing.

The whole evening had been relaxing, quiet and comfortable. He and Sherlock had eaten a late dinner (the massive breakfast tiding them over for most of the day), watched some telly, bathed Rosie. They’d talked like they hadn’t in months, about nothing, about everything. Then, after John put Rosie to bed, he and Sherlock had gone to bed too.

Something of John’s thoughts must have shown on his face because Sherlock’s flush deepened and he quickly looked back down at his laptop.

John thought it was unbelievably erotic the way Sherlock responded to the smallest touches. It seemed like no matter what John did, how lightly he touched him or where, Sherlock reacted as if John had done something incredibly provocative.

Last night, they had gone to bed and soft kisses had turned into something more and the distress of the previous night didn’t happen again. John let Sherlock lead- he always let Sherlock lead anyway- and it had resulted in heated kisses, clothes being tossed to the floor, quick hands divesting each other of every bit of clothing.

Except Sherlock’s shirt, John though ruefully. They hadn’t got around to removing that. Again. But, he couldn’t help the fact that he liked making love to Sherlock when he wore his bespoke shirt unbuttoned, opened around him. It had something to do with how Sherlock always looked so polished in public, put together and buttoned up…and then in the bedroom all of that was undone and John liked to see it.

“Where can I touch you?” John had asked because after his fuck up last night, he wouldn’t do anything unless Sherlock said he could.

“Anywhere.” Sherlock replied, trying to kiss him again. “Anywhere you want.”

John didn’t _exactly_ take Sherlock at his word, but he let his hands wander more than he had before. As Sherlock kissed him, his own hands busy over John as if he were trying to map him out just by feel, John went over Sherlock’s side and arse, his upper thigh and almost, almost to where Sherlock was hard, but not quite. Sherlock’s breathing noticeably quickened but John didn’t close those last few inches. He waited to see what Sherlock would do.

“I have…” Sherlock twisted away, reaching behind him and grabbing at something on the bedside table. It gave John the perfect opportunity to press a kiss to the center of Sherlock’s chest, giving in to the urge to turn the kiss into something heavier, tongue seeking out warm skin and he tasted Sherlock, sweat and soap.

Sherlock gasped, stiffened, frozen in the act of reaching for whatever it was he’d wanted, his spine bowing and pushing his chest out, more into John’s reach. God. If this were how Sherlock reacted to John’s tongue on his chest, how much more would he react to John’s tongue on his cock?

John couldn’t wait to find out.

That would have to wait though. Sherlock rolled back, a small bottle clutched in his hand. John looked at it warily. Lots of ideas ran through his mind, each more unlikely, but arousing, than the next. John looked from the bottle and back to Sherlock, licking his lips. When in doubt, ask.

“What do you want us to do with that?”

“Um.” Sherlock’s eyes trailed down and his hand followed the same route, gliding over John’s cock. “I thought…”

John was absolutely fucking sure he would love anything Sherlock thought.

He kissed Sherlock, heart racing. “Show me.”

Sherlock smiled, then grinned, excited, and that meant John had to kiss him again because…how could he not? When Sherlock looked like that, and John thought he had anything to do with putting that expression on his face, how could he resist kissing him?

While John watched, Sherlock squeezed the clear lube onto his palm and tossed the bottle behind him. One –handed, he rubbed his fingers over his palm, spreading and warming the liquid before reaching down and wrapping his hand around John’s cock.

“Oh…fuck…” John looked down, watching as Sherlock slowly stroked him, spreading the lube from root to tip, lingering a bit on the head of his cock. John shuddered, oversensitive, and he saw Sherlock looking at him from underneath his lashes. He knew what he was doing.

Sherlock shifted on the bed, scooting his hips closer to John’s and John was too slow on the uptake to realize what Sherlock was about to do. He could blame the fact that Sherlock’s hand was still touching his cock and that was distracting. He could blame his perverted imagination which was still racing ahead to what could happen. He could also blame himself for just being an idiot.

Because when Sherlock lined his cock up against John’s, smooth and dry against the wetness of John’s, and gripped both their cocks in his hand and _squeezed_ , the sound John made would embarrass him for the rest of his life. He knew it would.

“Is this okay?” Sherlock asked worriedly and John opened his eyes, hadn’t realized he’d closed them.

“Oh, god, please.” 

Sherlock grinned again, then he was stroking them together, their cocks rubbing against each other with every pass and John realized if he shifted his hips just a bit, forward and back, it felt like he was fucking Sherlock’s hand, right alongside his cock, and then it was Sherlock’s turn to make embarrassing noises.

It didn’t take long for either of them to come.

* * *

 

“John?” Mrs. Hudson asked. “You’ll come, won’t you?”

“I’m sorry- I’ll _what_?” John snapped, guilty, then realized what he’d said and blushed. Across the room, he heard Sherlock snicker.

* * *

 

The queue to see Santa had moved in the last quarter of an hour. They were nearing the front now and John was relieved. He didn’t know if he could have taken much more. Rosie, who had been quiet for a long time, content to watch everyone around her be interesting and gross, suddenly wriggled, dramatically throwing her body away from John, wanting down. She was surprisingly strong when she wanted to be and John, caught unaware, almost dropped her.

“What-?” He put her down and as soon as her feet hit the floor, Rosie was off and running, her mittens jangling wildly, luckily attached to her coat.

“Rosie- _no_!”

He started after her, Mrs. Hudson exclaiming, panicked because he knew if he lost her in the crowd of the mall, he would never find her again and what if someone took her or-

Then John spotted the person Rosie was running towards.

Sherlock hadn’t seen them yet. The mall was crowded and loud and people were moving every way, this way and that. He was striding through the crowd, hands in the pockets of his coat, watching everyone as they milled around him, giving the windows of the shops he passed a cursory glance in case John and Mrs. Hudson were in any of them. Someone jostled his elbow and he stepped further away from them, dodging around a small family, the mother of which was pushing a pram and looked frazzled.

He still hadn’t seen them, but he was walking in their direction so there was no way he would miss them when he got closer. John watched him, tracking Rosie’s stumbling progress as she pattered in the direction she’d seen him.

Rosie was almost to Sherlock before he saw her. He’d not been looking for tiny assailants dressed like fashion rejects all by themselves, and he hadn’t been looking down but up, at adult height.

“Da!”

Surprise was instant but then Sherlock’s face broke into a wide smile and he stooped so Rosie could toss herself into his arms. He picked her up, settling her naturally in his arms, and John could see Rosie’s face, animated, babbling about something to which Sherlock listened seriously. John didn’t pretend to not understand what he was feeling as he watched Sherlock interact with his daughter. He knew what it was. He just didn’t think he could voice it. Not yet.

He saw Sherlock ask Rosie something and she turned, pointing toward John, and their eyes met across the busy thoroughfare. He gave Sherlock a wave, which was returned with a smile, and then Sherlock was walking closer with Rosie, weaving between people. He wanted to kiss him. When Sherlock got closer, John wanted to tug at his scarf and pull him closer and kiss him in front of everyone because the emotion beneath his ribs couldn’t be contained.

He _had_ to kiss him.

“I thought you said that if you dressed her this hideously you wouldn’t lose her.” Sherlock teased. “What’s the point, then, if you still can’t keep track of her?”

“Leave off, at least she’s been warm all day.” John said and something must have been off because Sherlock’s expression shifted, confused by what he was seeing. John licked his lips. He was going to kiss Sherlock. He was-

“John! Hurry! It’s Rosie’s turn!”

John spun around. Mrs. Hudson beckoned frantically at him, and when John turned back to Sherlock, he was already brushing past him to hand Rosie to Mrs. Hudson.

* * *

 

Rosie, it turned out, like most children in the world, did not enjoy mall Santas.

She took one look at the man in the fake beard who was holding her, dressed all in red, and scowled darkly. Or as darkly as a little girl dressed in orange, purple, yellow, and pink could scowl. She looked to her daddies, then back to the Santa, baffled and deeply disgusted with where she was.

John, who’d been worried she would cry and then he would feel like a horrible father for putting her through that, didn’t know if he should be proud or laugh. People standing in the line behind them snickered and John finally gave in. Rosie was just too cute, his little rainbow girl who clearly hated Santa, to not laugh.

“I can’t believe you knew your daughter was going to be photographed and still dressed her like that.” Sherlock berated John, but he bought an ornate frame before they left the mall and placed Rosie’s picture in it. That night, the frame was positioned in just the right place on the mantle so everyone could see their darling’s first experience with Santa Claus.


	16. Day 16- Shaking From the Cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note: This chapter depicts talk of rape and torture. If that is something that will be triggering for you, please skip to the bottom of this chapter and I will provide a summary at the end.

Mrs. Hudson hummed under her breath as she tidied up her flat, dusting her knick-knacks and mirrors and mantles, straightening a few sparkly decorations which had gone lopsided, and damp mopping all the floors downstairs, even the worn spot in front of the door. She was in a good mood, and when she was in a good mood, she didn’t mind cleaning.

She ran the vacuum over the carpets, put a load of clothes in the washer, and then made a casserole. Later that night, Mrs. Turner was coming over for drinks and gossip and there was already wine chilling in the fridge and a little something stronger, spiced and perfect for the holiday, hidden away so Sherlock wouldn’t commandeer it for himself and John.

Thinking of Sherlock and John made Mrs. Hudson’s mood so much better that she decided to even do the washing up. Dirty dishes from casserole preparation, and breakfast earlier that morning, were quickly stacked and hot water ran as she hummed a merry Christmas song, pouring too much foamy soap in but not minding at all.

She’d known it would turn out all right for her boys in the end. When “in the end” had actually been, Mrs. Hudson hadn’t known enough to speculate an exact date…but she had known that Sherlock and John would end up together. Eventually. And now they were. They’d sorted themselves out like they should have done years ago and John was besotted with Sherlock, as he should be, and acting like it, as he also should be, and Mrs. Hudson was glad. Sherlock had been pining over that man for ages and he deserved all the besotting and loving and caring John Watson could ever possibly give him.

“And deserves more than _that_ , if he wants my opinion.” Mrs. Hudson muttered, scrubbing at a particularly greasy spot on a plate. “Especially after that wife of his. Shooting Sherlock. Pulling them apart.” Mrs. Hudson sniffed contemptuously. Sherlock knew how she felt about Mary Morstan but he had never wanted to speak badly of her, continually giving Mary the benefit of the doubt because she was John’s wife. Mrs. Hudson hasn’t minded saying what needed to be said, though.

“For such a smart man, he can be such an idiot when it comes to the people he loves.” Mrs. Hudson said, but she couldn’t stay mad at Sherlock for long, especially not for being blind toward the few people he loved, which included herself, and when she started washing the next dish, it was with less irritated vigor than earlier.

Sherlock and John were out, on some case the DI had texted about earlier, and Rosie was at her sitter’s for the day. It was a nice, quiet morning with everything clean and shiny, the Christmas tree lights glowing, John and Sherlock were in love, there was something nice for dinner almost done, and wine and friends and gossip would occupy her evening.

When she finished the dishes, Mrs. Hudson sat down on her sofa with a contented sigh, reaching for the romance novel she’d been planning to finish the last few nights. It was a saucy one with a sex scene that’d made even her blush and she couldn’t wait to see what happened.

Nothing could spoil this day.

“Mrs. Hudson!”

* * *

 

John was shouting before he’d opened the front door, agitatedly calling for their landlady while jamming his key in the lock with a curse. He turned it with one hand which was difficult without letting go of Sherlock who was sagged against him, a tall, freezing, damp leech intent on sucking all of John’s warmth. And John would let him. He’d cuddled Sherlock in the car ride over, blasting the heat even when Lestrade complained and John sweated through his shirt. It didn’t matter. They had to get Sherlock warm.

“Mrs. Hudson!”

It was hard opening the door, but he managed, shoving it open so hard it banged on the wall opposite just as Mrs. Hudson ran out of her flat.

“What is it? What’s wrong-?”

“It’s Sherlock.” John snapped, breathing heavily through his nose, furious, and he reached back to pull Sherlock through the door after him, quickly closing it against the cold. Sherlock stood meekly where John had put him, wrapped in a coarse, blue blanket which was layered over what looked like two more orange shock blankets. He clutched all three to himself with shaking, pale hands. His hair was wet, plastered to his forehead in large clumps, and his body jittered so much the wet locks also shook as if they were cold as well. His face was deathly pale, completely colorless, and he looked shocked, eyes wide and startled, as if he had no idea why he was so cold. His lips were tinged blue around the edges and his teeth chattered in fits and starts as he tried to stop shaking but didn’t seem able. Mrs. Hudson gaped at him as a puddle formed beneath Sherlock’s feet, dirty water dripping from his clothes onto her newly cleaned floors.

She exclaimed, starting forward. “Sherlock! What’ve you done?”

“Fell through the ice.” John said, grabbing Sherlock’s arm and steering him toward the stairs. Sherlock went without resistance but his legs were frozen and he moved somewhat woodenly with every step. “Can you help?” He asked Mrs. Hudson but didn’t wait for a response. “Go upstairs and start running a bath. Warm. Not too hot. We don’t want his body going into shock. We’ll turn it up later when he gets warmer. And turn the kettle on so I can make him some tea. We’ve got to get his temperature up fast.”

Mrs. Hudson nodded and hurried up the stairs and now that they were back home where there was a plan and resources and all the hot things he needed to make Sherlock better, some of John’s furious panic of the last half hour started to lessen.

“Come on. We’ve got to get you upstairs and in the bath. And next time you feel like doing something that stupid,” he said as they mounted the first step together, “you might want to tell me first so I can get everything ready in advance to save your arse.”

“I c-c-caught th-the c-c-crim-inal, d-didn’t I?” Sherlock managed to retort, a pathetic attempt at being spiteful because his lips were too numb to properly form words, and the shaking of his body made every syllable he spoke trembly.

“Yeah, _spectacularly_.” John snapped, scathing, and his tone, not inhibited by the cold but instead fueled with anger, hit the mark. He was always at his most angry when he was worried or upset and today, after seeing Sherlock fall into a lake, his head disappearing beneath the chunks of frozen water and then emerging, blue and quivering, John was livid. “You dragged him into the water with you when you went falling through the sodding ice. Didn’t do much catching of him as you sank like a stone-“

“I…I- I d-did n-not-“

“Yes, you did.” John didn’t wait for Sherlock to protest, hauling him up the stairs as quickly as Sherlock’s legs would work- which still wasn’t fast enough for John. They were wasting time and Sherlock was still in his wet clothes. That alone would prevent his body from regulating its own temperature so he wasn’t getting any warmer. He was at serious risk of hypothermia if they didn’t get him warmed up soon.

“The i-i-i-ice sup-orted h-him.”

“ _Him_ was a smackhead barely weighing 80 pounds. The ice wasn’t thick enough to support you both.”

Sherlock didn’t respond to this because they both knew John was right. They reached the landing at last and made their way to Sherlock’s bedroom, passing the loo where steam fogged out the door and the sounds of water running in the tub promised instant relief. In a hurry, John bundled Sherlock into his bedroom, closing the door behind him.

Once they were in Sherlock’s room, John took his first good look at Sherlock since they’d got out of the car. He looked miserable and cold, huddled inward on himself, his shoulders hunched and shaking uncontrollably; blue lips and colorless cheeks, his eyes were closed in abject wretchedness. He looked so pitiful and cold that John deflated, all his angry dissipating in a sudden rush of guilt and compassion. He didn’t need to be angry with Sherlock...even if he was a berk.

“Give me those, love.” He helped Sherlock detach his fingers from his blankets, unwinding them from his shoulders, and wincing sympathetically at the sight of his soaked-through detective. His coat was all John had been able to make Sherlock remove after he climbed out of the water. The best thing to do when someone fell through ice was immediately undress them so they didn’t get hypothermia, but Sherlock had been adamant, even protesting in the back of the ambulance. He would not remove his clothes, no matter how much John raged or the paramedics pleaded. Hence their quick trip back to the flat, courtesy of Lestrade and his patrol car.

“We need to get you out of these clothes.” John said and Sherlock’s eyes widened and John knew, if Sherlock hadn’t been so cold, he would have been blushing. He was like that, getting shy at odd moments which John honestly found endearing as fuck. He didn’t want to make Sherlock uncomfortable though. “I’m sorry- I didn’t mean-“

“ ‘S f-f-fine. I kn-know what you-you m-meant.”

“Right.” John hesitated, eyes assessing what needed to be done first. “Do you want me to help or-?”

“I c-can d-d-do it m-myself, J-J-J-John.” But when Sherlock tried to make his frozen fingers cooperate, they were too numb, ungainly, and he couldn’t even unbutton his shirt. He quickly grew frustrated, his fingers slipping over the buttons ineffectually.

“Here.” John gently brushed Sherlock’s hands aside. “Let me help. Yeah?”

As John undressed him Sherlock stood strangely passively, eyes remote and fixed on a point over John’s shoulder as buttons popped out of their holes to reveal his chest, pale but with redness spreading in blotchy patches. He was cold to the touch. John winced. He needed to get him warm.

Now.

Sherlock allowed John to peel the sodden garment off his shoulders and down his arms, unresponsive, not even blinking, but jumped when John tossed it to the side, the soaked shirt landing with a wet plop. John gestured at Sherlock’s trousers. They needed to go next, but they’d only been dating a few days. Even if Sherlock needed the help, it seemed presumptuous of him to just assume…

“Do you want me to-?”

Sherlock nodded, eyes still fixed and vacant. Something prickled, a warning, a sense of wrongness, and John hesitated.

“Sherlock? Are you all right?”

Stupid question because of course he wasn’t all right: he’d been dragged out of an icy lake and was getting hypothermia even while they dawdled, but John had to ask. Sherlock blinked, eyes focusing and he looked at John, blank and expressionless.

“Sherlock-?”

Sherlock jolted forward and kissed him, his frozen lips innocently chaste against John’s. The cold of his touch was shocking but more so was the way Sherlock suddenly seemed frantic, icy hands touching John’s face while Sherlock kissed him and when he stopped he didn’t go far, resting his forehead against John’s, seeming loathe to move too far away and break contact between them.

“Hello.” John smiled, chafing at Sherlock’s arms, hoping to lend him a little warmth while they stood there.“What was that for?”

“Thank y-you.” Sherlock whispered. “Th-that’s all.”

“You don’t have to thank me. I wanted to help. And I wasn’t really angry, earlier, Sherlock. Not at you. Well, I was. But I was more worried than angry. Here.” He made Sherlock step back, hands on his hips which Sherlock didn’t react to and probably couldn’t even feel, and undid the zip of his trousers. Under other circumstances it would have been hot and John might have made a joke, but Sherlock’s lips were blue and that effectively killed John’s mood.

The trousers had to be peeled down Sherlock’s legs, icy in places and so wet they clung to him like a second skin. John crouched to do it, putting him at eye level with Sherlock’s cock, carefully not looking- he didn’t want to make Sherlock uncomfortable- and wrestled the trousers the rest of the way off, Sherlock stepping awkwardly out of them with John’s help. Sherlock’s pants were next and John pulled those down as clinically as he could.

“It’s f-from the c-c-old, John. I p-p-p-promise.” Sherlock quipped nervously when his pants hit the floor and John couldn’t help but laugh. Sherlock’s cock and balls were small and shriveled, doing their best to retreat back inside his body, and he grimaced in sympathy.

“Considering that I’ve seen your cock up close and personal- _very_ personal,” He grinned, winking and there was Sherlock’s odd frozen-not blush again. “I believe you.”

“Thank g-goodness we’re already t-t-t-together th-then. Or- or y-you’d n-never want anything to-to do, w-with me.”

John chuckled, shaking his head. “Doubt that. There’s nothing you could to make me not want you. I’d always want you, no matter what.”

Sherlock frowned and his eyes flicked to the loo door, then back to John’s face. His mouth twisted and he opened his mouth, reaching for John’s arm-

“John? The bath’s ready!” Mrs. Hudson called and Sherlock’s hand fell away as he stepped back.

“Come on, love.” John cajoled, taking Sherlock’s hand and opening the loo door. Steam made his skin break out in an immediate sweat, but behind him he heard Sherlock sigh with pleasure. John dropped Sherlock’s frozen hand and set to gathering a flannel and linens and laying out Sherlock’s soap because even though the point was to get him warm, Sherlock had still fallen in a dirty lake and John knew he would want to get clean at some point.

He turned, expecting to find Sherlock behind him, or already stepping into the tub, but he was still hovering just inside the door, shivering, arms crossed demurely in front of him.

“Come on. In you go.”

* * *

 

There was no way to prevent this from happening.

Sherlock knew it couldn’t have lasted too much longer anyway. Eventually, the novelty of having sex with him while his shirt was still on would wear off, and then John would want it removed too. Steam rose off the water and Sherlock’s bones felt frozen. It looked so inviting, and he would give anything not to have to step around John and get in.

If he protested, John would want to know why. If he asked for privacy, as if he didn’t trust him, John would be hurt. If Sherlock outright resisted, John’s suspicions would be aroused and questions would be asked to which he didn’t want to give answers. It was going to happen, whether Sherlock wanted it to or not.

Sherlock sighed, resigned, and stepped closer to the tub. He’d wanted to kiss John one more time before he found out what had happened and before he stopped looking at Sherlock the same way and uninhibitedly reacting to Sherlock’s overtures. He’d wanted to kiss John because afterwards, Sherlock didn’t think John would really want to kiss him anymore.

Sherlock hesitated, glancing at John who looked confused at his hesitation, his stomach in knots...then made the decision, resolving himself to the fear, and slowly walked around him and stepped over the side of the tub.

He heard John’s sharp breath, his step forward in disbelief and horror, and then stopping as he took in what he was seeing, unable to believe his own eyes.

Sherlock slipped into the water, hiding himself from John’s view, his limbs tingling as feeling began to return. He knew what John had seen.

The scars started at his shoulders and slashed downward, whip marks, thin white lines crisscrossing everywhere, and trailing down to where his buttocks began. Some were thicker than others when knives had been put to creative use instead, ragged where the wounds had been crudely stitched together. Layers of them ran over the length of his back, interspersed with a few circular burn marks as if to give the horror added aesthetic flair.

Sherlock didn’t want to see John’s face. He didn’t want to know what it would look like, or the emotions it would contain. John was standing near the tub, Sherlock could see him in the periphery of his vision, a thousand questions wanting to be asked. Sherlock could feel them, but he closed his eyes wearily.

“Not now, John. Please. Later. Just…not now.”

* * *

 

“How is he?”

John glanced behind him to the closed loo door. “Fine. Tired. Going to make him a cuppa. Maybe that’ll help.”

“Good idea. I’ve got everything ready. I’ll bring up something hot for him to eat too, since you won’t have time taking care of him.” Mrs. Hudson whispered and John thanked her profusely, his mind back in the loo with Sherlock.

How had he missed the scars? How? They were vivid and numerous enough that it wasn’t something he could have just missed. He had been intimate with Sherlock a few times over the past days. How had he never seen-?

Because he hadn’t seen Sherlock fully naked, John realized as he mechanically made tea, the repetitive motions not enough to soothe his jangled nerves. In the handful of days they’d been together, Sherlock had never taken his shirt off. He’d always kept it on, subtly insisting and John had gone along with him because he thought it was hot and not because he thought Sherlock was hiding something.

Even when Sherlock had been in hospital, John thought as he added enough sugar to Sherlock’s cup and stirred, even after being shot by Mary and being operated on and then John caring for his wound, he’d never seen Sherlock’s back. Just his chest, or his side, shirt held strategically in place to conceal the scars as if Sherlock had practiced. Which he probably had, John realized.

John didn’t need Sherlock to tell him what had happened. He’d seen the same thing in Afghanistan more than once, more times than he’d wanted to see. The marks torture left behind were easily recognizable, brutal in their application, and someone had done that to Sherlock. They’d made him defenseless and taken a whip to his back and-

“God.” John bent over the worktop, gasping for air and trying to get his breathing under control. He needed to be calm. For Sherlock. The idea of what had happened to him, and what else John feared had happened to him- his mind filling in all the possibilities- made him sick with anguish. It was as if someone had carved out a hole from his chest, but rage was there too, a fire in his belly because whoever had dared to think that they could touch Sherlock like that needed to pay.

“John? You all right?” Mrs. Hudson set a plate of casserole on the counter, staring at John worriedly.

“Yeah. No. I’m fine. It’s just…” Maybe it was a betrayal of Sherlock’s trust, but John needed to know. He couldn’t go back down that hall and act normal unless he knew a few things. He asked as delicately as possible:

“Did Sherlock…did he ever talk to you about what happened? When he was away?”

“Not much, no.” She shook her head. “He never really talked about it to me when he came back. Mycroft told me a few things, of course, just enough so I knew the warning signs and what to look for. Things like that. How to keep an eye on Sherlock, you know.”

“And what did he tell you?”

Mrs. Hudson frowned, thinking. “It was so long ago...let me see...I remember he said there was some mission he lost Sherlock on-“

“He _lost_ Sherlock?” John shouted, then lowered his voice, glancing at the loo door, guilty. “What do you mean he _lost Sherlock_?”

“Well, when he was away, you know. When he and Mycroft were taking down all of Moriarty’s agents overseas and on the continent and...everywhere. Apparently, near the end, there was some top-level mission. Secret agent stuff. So classified Mycroft couldn’t even tell me what it was about. And somehow...Sherlock got lost. Mycroft said they lost contact with him for a few months.”

“ _Months_?! How do you lose someone for months?”

Mrs. Hudson shrugged, spreading her hands. “I don’t know. But he said by the time they managed to find him, Sherlock was in bad shape. Cuts and bruises and all sorts of infections...”

John nodded, closing his eyes and trying to come to terms with the fact that Sherlock had gone missing. While he’d thought Sherlock was off gallivanting and effortlessly completing missions, getting high on the thrill of the chase, Mycroft had sent his little brother on a top secret mission and then lost him. Sherlock had disappeared for months. His back was a mess of scars.

“What did Mycroft tell you to look out for?”

“Not much. The usual things. Make sure he got enough to eat. The drugs. Seedy people coming or going and what Sherlock was doing with them. Oh, he said Sherlock suffered from anxiety and that he got flashbacks sometimes. So if he acted out the ordinary to call him right away. And just check on him, not let him be alone so much. Mycroft was especially worried about him since you were with Mary and…well.”

John felt as if he’d been hit. Sherlock had returned to London after being tortured and god knew what else, and John had abandoned him. He’d left with Mary, avoiding Sherlock for days, bitter and resentful, thinking he was righteous in his anger and all the while those scars had been on Sherlock’s back and he’d been hurting and in pain...

“This tea’s gone cold. I’ll make a fresh cup.” Mrs. Hudson squeezed around John and started the kettle again.

John nodded to her, not trusting his voice at the moment to thank her.

* * *

 

John asked if Sherlock wanted help getting out of the bath or dressing, both of which Sherlock politely declined. He felt reasonably thawed, warming the water as he’d needed, and his fingers worked well enough to dress himself. He pulled on clothes, pajamas and a robe, bundled himself in a blanket, wrapping it around his shoulders like armor. He wanted to stay in his room. He didn’t want to have this conversation with John.

It needed to happen.

He trooped through and sat on the sofa and John took one look at him and spread another quilt over him, tucking in the edges so there wouldn’t be any drafts.

“I’m fine, John. There’s no reason to fuss.”

“You just think you’re fine.”John said, his voice horribly odd. “That could be shock. I’m the doctor.” His tone was too light, not normal, a forced composedness that belied the way his spine was straight, shoulders rigid with tension as he returned to the kitchen for more tea and hot food, avoiding Sherlock’s eyes the whole time.

They weren’t going to talk about it. Not yet. They’d have tea like proper British men and circle around each other for a while, everything awful between them, until one of them finally broke. Sherlock nestled into the blanket, feeling as if he were being given a stay of execution.

John handed him a steaming cup of tea, sweetened just how he liked, and Sherlock took it with hands that barely shook. He watched the liquid slosh and knew it wasn’t because he was still cold. He took a delicate sip and put the cup on the table.

“You should drink more of that. It’ll warm you up from the inside.” John insisted. He was trying not to hover, pacing away to his chair, thinking about sitting but realizing he was too far away from Sherlock, then returning but not knowing where to sit or stand, not wanting to crowd Sherlock on the sofa but wanting to be as close as possible to him. After a few circuits, in which John never settled, the nervous energy in the room was too much and Sherlock couldn’t take it anymore.

“John. Sit.” He snapped and John huffed, sitting on the edge of the coffee table, so he could be near Sherlock. There was room on the sofa for him , but being that close would have made it more painful for both of them, considering the conversation they were about to have.

Sherlock took another sip of tea and wanted to throw up. He made a face and set it aside. “You have questions.”

“Only if you want to tell me.”

“You asked about what happened when I was away. The other night.”

“Yeah.”

“You were right. What you said. Mycroft and I were working together, ferreting out the last of Moriarty’s network and systematically destroying every last link.” Maybe if he said it all at once, it would be less painful. “There was a mission, while I was away. The last one. In Serbia. They were dealing with human trafficking, amassing millions for their victims and it seemed like the key to finally bringing all the rest of it down because they were linked. Everything was linked.” Sherlock took a deep breath. “I was…discovered.”

John was silent, listening to Sherlock speak, and he was grateful not to be interrupted because he wasn’t sure he’d be able to continue if he was. Sherlock stared at the Christmas tree, watching the ornaments turn in a slight draft, sparkling and catching his eye.

“I didn’t know who had betrayed me, or what I had done to draw attention to myself, but it was something so simple. A momentary act of helping someone, ten or eleven years old, too young to be where they were, and my cover slipped. Just for a moment. I was captured. Kept in isolation. They wanted to know who I was. Who I was working for. What I’d been sent to do. I couldn’t tell them. There were more lives at stake than just my own. If I talked, other people could die and we could lose our best chance to end their activities. When I wouldn’t answer them, they thought pain would be an encouragement. Whips. Knives. Fists. The usual. I still didn’t tell them anything.”

He was coming to the difficult part of his story, the part he hadn’t wanted to tell John about. He quickly glanced at John who was leaned forward, arms on his thighs, intent, waiting for what Sherlock would say next. He looked so lovely in the light of the fire, staring at Sherlock with so much affection and worry. Sherlock’s stomach hurt and he looked away again.

“I was kept there for months, always restrained in some way of course. Chains. Ropes. Hands. Deprived of sleep, food, water in rotation. All in an attempt to elicit information. The normal techniques of torture. They didn’t want me dead. Maimed was fine, so long as I could talk, because they were scared. They’d gotten wind of the collapse of the rest of Moriarty’s kingdom and thought they may have caught a conspirator...but they couldn’t prove it. At some point, though, when they realized that none of their efforts were working, they fell back on the expected way of getting information, as old as time. They…”

He couldn’t say it.

He couldn’t tell John what had happened to him. It was humiliating to confess all the degrading things a group of men could do to someone who was weak and powerless to stop them, as he had been. He couldn’t tell John all the things he’d been forced to do, hands between his legs that forced him to respond and then the laughter when he did. Weak and beaten, hungry and in pain, he’d had no control over his body and with his arms bound, no way to stop them while he was debased and violated at their whim.

Sick shame made him want to throw up the tea he’d just drank and Sherlock swallowed convulsively, fighting the impulse, hands grasping at his blankets. He was so ashamed of what had happened. He didn’t want John to look at him differently when he told him, because Sherlock knew he would. John was honorable. A good man. He would be angry on Sherlock’s behalf and he would want to hurt those responsible for his torture. It would be gratifying, his devotion, but he would also never be able to look at Sherlock like he had been. The way he had the last few days. Their every intimate moment would be tinged with the memories of what Sherlock had gone through, John unable to stop picturing it no matter what they did together. John wouldn’t stop, Sherlock thought, but he would only act in guilt, touching Sherlock and kissing him because he wanted to make him feel better after what had happened, not because he wanted to. Not anymore.

As Sherlock’s silence extended, he wondered if John had already guessed what he couldn’t admit. John was a realist. He’d gone to war. He’d witnessed horrible things, the depths of depravity men could sink to when they were stronger than someone else and had them at their sick mercy. Maybe he already knew.

John was rigid, waiting for Sherlock to finish speaking. But Sherlock could tell from the look in John’s eyes, too wide and wild, shadowed: he had already guessed. His hands were gripped in front of him between his knees, so tightly the tips were bloodless. He was breathing rapidly, distressed, but he didn’t trust what his own mind was telling him. He wanted to hear it from Sherlock, with his own mouth, exactly what had happened, or he’d never believe it. He’d always doubt, always wonder.

“They…” Sherlock tried again, tucking his chin in, drawing in on himself and and trying to put distance between him and his confession. “The pain didn’t work, as I said, but there are more ways than that to extract information, especially among men who know they have the advantage of their captive… It is less accurate to say it was _forced_ because force implies there was active _resistance_ and as I was always either chained or in some other way restrained, therefore it wouldn’t be…”

_“Oh god_.” John choked, quickly standing from the coffee table and turning away, one hand over his mouth as if he would be sick, the other held in a fist. The vehemence of his reaction, Sherlock had prepared for, but it still made his heart race with anxiety. He didn’t know what would happen next.

John stayed turned away for a minute, trying to compose himself, and Sherlock let him have all the time he needed, gripping his own hands in his lap to keep them from shaking. Finally, John rounded on Sherlock. His face was horribly raw. Sherlock looked away and tightened his grip on his hands.

“Why didn’t you tell me about any of this before?” He asked softly, and Sherlock shrugged.

“It didn’t seem important to tell you. It wouldn’t have affected our friendship, or solving cases, or our day-to-day lives. What did it matter?”

“It mattered, Sherlock.” John said, walking back and sitting down again. “Of course it mattered.”

“I don’t see how. Nothing would have been any different from sharing that information with you.” Sherlock’s chest felt tight. It was hard to get enough air. John was watching him, his face showing so much pain Sherlock couldn’t look at him

“Are you…all right?” John asked gently and for a second Sherlock didn’t understand what he meant. Of course he was fine. This had happened years ago. All his wounds had healed and John himself had seen that he was not injured and was fully functional. There was no lasting damage, but-

oh. Of course. John was using a euphemism in place of what he wanted to ask. It hurt, but it was a fair question considering the circumstances.

“I’m fine. I know we haven’t used correct protection during our sexual encounters, but I promise I don’t have any diseases. Mycroft’s doctor thoroughly checked-“

“ _No_.” John was mortified, blanching. “ _God. No._ Sherlock. Nothing like that.” He wanted to touch Sherlock. His hand made an aborted effort but fell short, not knowing if he’d be accepted by Sherlock. “I meant. Are _you_ all right?”

“Yes.” He’d replied too quickly and John’s eyes were soft, worried. They ate at Sherlock because instead of the desire and lust he’d seen the last few days, all of it directed wonderfully at him for the time in his life, there was just pain and, worst of all, pity.

“Sherlock.” John chided softly and this time he did reach out, touching the back of Sherlock’s hand, relaxing when Sherlock turned it over so he could properly hold it. The touch did nothing to soothe Sherlock. It felt meaningless, hollow and motivated by sadness.

“I’m fine, John. I’ve been evaluated by very expensive doctors from all sorts of fields who have run extensive tests and concluded that I am just as healthy as I ever was. No lasting physical damage. Well. Except for the scars.” He amended, but John didn’t look any better. Sherlock continued. “So we can go on tonight as we’ve been without worry. This won’t have to change anything to do with our relationship. I don't want it to. I’m not...I enjoy what we do together. I promise.”

John sighed, threading their fingers together and squeezing. “I’m so sorry that happened to you. Sherlock. God. I’m so sorry.” He looked pained, so deeply upset and Sherlock knew he wouldn't like what John was about to say next. “But. Listen. This is a lot to process, yeah? And…I don’t think it would be smart for us to do like you said- keep on like we have been when you’ve gone through…when you’ve...I’m not really sure you’re as fine as you say.” John carefully explained, choosing his words with care and each one landed with the precision of a lance to Sherlock’s heart. “I know that first night...I know I was going too fast, but when I touched you like that, you looked so scared, for just a moment…” John shook his head. “I just want to make sure I do everything right and that you’re comfortable with anything we may do. I think it would be better to give us some time to adjust, when we aren’t doing anything sexual,” he said when Sherlock looked confused. “When we are just...taking our time. Yeah? We can figure all this out together because the last thing I ever want to do is hurt you.”

“Obviously, I’m fine, John.” Sherlock insisted. John’s hand was warm in his own, but he didn’t play with Sherlock’s fingers or sweep his thumb back and forth across the back of Sherlock’s hand like he usually did. The hold was chaste and detached. John was already pulling away from him.

“You can verify that nothing was damaged from viewing me during our previous encounters and I’ll let you check anything else, if you want. Everything is in good working order and obviously I have normal reactions. And.” Sherlock paused, knowing it would sound like he was begging, but he wanted to preserve what he could of their relationship. “I promise I can give you anything you may ever want, sexually. I know that while there may be some natural reticence on my part because of former relations, I guarantee that I can overcome the initial impulse and satisfy you no matter what sexual act-“

“ _God_ , Sherlock!” John exclaimed angrily, jerking his hand away and standing. “What do you think of me if all you think I’d care about, after hearing you’d been raped, is whether or not I can still get to fuck you?”

Sherlock didn’t know what to say. He knew it wasn’t the _only_ thought John had, obviously, but it had to be there, somewhere in the back of his mind. He knew John had said he was enough, more than enough, and while Sherlock knew that had probably been an exaggeration, he assumed John had included in that statement the plethora of sexual acts they could do together and which they would both find pleasurable, some of which he now thought would be ruined by Sherlock’s revelation, therefore rendering the original statement null and void. He didn’t want that to happen.

“I only wanted to assure you…” Sherlock said slowly, trying to recoup. “that…despite whatever occurred in the past…I can still be anything you want me to be…”

“Sherlock. Stop.” John begged. “Please stop. I just want you to be…you. Yourself.” Then, as if could read Sherlock’s thoughts: “Remember? I told you, you’re more than enough for me. I meant it.”

Sherlock scoffed, shaking his head.

“You don’t believe me?”

“Why should I?” Emotions were clamoring in his chest, slashing and painful, and he was pushing John away and he couldn’t stop. “Don’t be yourself. Let’s give smartarse a wide berth. You’re not a problem solver, you’re a drama queen. You’d rather have anyone else, except me. Your letter Molly gave me. Is this a bloody game? Those aren’t the statements of a man who thinks I’m enough-“

“You’re right. You’re absolutely right.” John admitted gravely. “I did say all of that in the past. I did. I’ve been a prick to you and the things I’ve said have crossed the line and they’re unforgivable, they really are. I never should have said them, ever. And I’m sorry. I’ll tell you how sorry I am for the rest of our lives, but Sherlock…It’s true...I want you…just you. However you are. I always have.”

“If you really felt that way, you wouldn’t have married her.” Sherlock spat and it was the ugliest thing he had ever thought about John and it was as effective as a slap in John’s face. His head even snapped back, reeling, as if the words had actual weight. Sherlock could see him struggling to accept the words and assimilate their meaning.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” John finally asked, and Sherlock wanted to shut up. He wanted to stop the flow of hateful words. He didn’t want to explain because if he did he knew what would come out and it would be cutting, designed to hurt.

“It’s easy enough to understand, John. For most people, I suppose. If you really felt that way- that I was really enough for you- you wouldn’t have married her when I returned. What else am I supposed to think? The evidence is difficult to refute, don’t you think?”

John flinched, not fighting back, and Sherlock wanted to stop. He was destroying this.

“But you did marry her. You didn’t want me then. You chose her. Now, she’s gone, you have no other family you’re close to, and you’ve isolated yourself from most of your friends. Therefore, the only logical step was to move in with me because it’s easier and convenient for you, and of course I’d take you back. That’s always been a given, no matter what. You’ve exhausted all your other options for romantic interests and left me for last. After all, who else would date me? Who else would ever want me? So, after everyone else, _everyone else,_ John, you may as well settle for me and give it a go because you know I’ll gladly have you after years of waiting for you and because I’ve always loved you, but even now that’s not enough. Now you’ve found out there’s something _wrong_ with me and it upsets your perfect idea of a warm home and an easy, comfortable fuck.” Sherlock realized, at some point he had started crying and he could feel the tears slipping down his face and streaking uncomfortably down his neck, but there was nothing he could do to stop them any more than he could stop what he said next. “You won’t leave because you’re a good person and you do have a sense of honor and- and loyalty. Which I admire. But that will be the only thing keeping you with me now, and if that’s all it is, John, I don’t want your fucking pity.”

It was silent in the flat for a long minute, with only the sound of their breaths and the crackling of the fire as they stared at each other across a gulf that was widening by the second. Sherlock’s words lay between them, bitter and angry, deliberately provoking, and Sherlock saw the exact moment John became angry enough and decided not to care.

“Fine. Fine.” He nodded tersely, hands opening and closing into fists at his sides. He was trying to stay calm but Sherlock had meant to hurt him, and he had. “Then you won’t get it.”

He strode from the room, grabbing his jacket from the hook as he went, and thundering down the stairs. He slammed the front door behind him and left Sherlock alone.

* * *

 

As soon as John closed the door, he wanted to go back inside. He wanted to go back and run up the stairs and throw himself down beside the sofa and beg Sherlock to forgive him. Nothing Sherlock had said was true, none of it. But Sherlock’s words still echoed in his head, his anger directed at John and so he kept walking, striding down the sidewalk, putting as much distance as he could between himself and the flat because he needed to think.

Now he knew what had happened to Sherlock while he’d been away. John’s mind was able to picture the scene Sherlock described, hurt and alone and restrained, at the mercy of brutish thugs who leered at him like John had seen others do before. John hadn’t been there to protect him though, and Sherlock had been held by people who didn’t care about him. They’d used him. He had said men.

Plural.

“Jesus.” John walked faster, as if he could outrun his thoughts. He walked until his legs hurt and the sun had dipped down behind the buildings, and he was shivering from the cold. He retraced his steps, guilty. He needed to pick up Rosie. He was already late.

The sitter gave John a stern look when he arrived and reminded him of their agreed upon time to get Rosie. John promised it wouldn’t happen again, but the sitter didn’t look like she believed him. He couldn’t worry about it, not now, and he silently took Rosie home. She chattered about her day and sometimes John caught the beginnings of words, could almost decipher what Rosie could be trying to say. He held her hand as she trotted beside him, happy as a ray of sunshine, innocently oblivious to the disaster that had occurred between her daddies.

As soon as they were back at the flat, Rosie was looking for Sherlock, calling out for him, but there was no sign he was there. His bedroom door was closed. John assumed he was in there. That night, he didn’t let Rosie open a door in her advent. That was something Sherlock had been doing with her and it didn’t seem right to do it without him, especially as things stood between them.

John got himself and Rosie ready for bed with a heavy chest, mind weighted. He didn’t know what he was going to do with everything Sherlock had told him, how he could respond to make Sherlock understand. He tucked Rosie in and waited until she was asleep, then went back downstairs. He stared at Sherlock’s bedroom door for ages, willing it to open or for him to make a sound and let John know he was okay.

There was nothing.

John still didn’t know what he was going to say, but he walked to the door anyway and knocked lightly. There was no answer. He hadn’t expected there to be one.

He sighed, resting his forehead against the wood with a thunk. “Sherlock? You in there?”

Nothing. Not even a rustle.

“Sherlock...I’m sorry about today. I’m sorry about what happened and...I’m so fucking sorry about a lot of things I’ve done…” John closed his eyes, trying to figure it out. “I’m sorry for giving you the idea that I didn’t like you, really, really like you...or only cared about you for what I could get out of it. It’s not true, for the record.” John said. “There’s no excuse for my behavior. Sherlock. There’s not. But. I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you. If you’ll let me.” He licked his lips nervously. “And that’s not because I feel sorry for you. Or pity you. And it’s not because of what you told me today. It’s because...it’s because I love you.”

In a perfect world, the door would have opened in a flurry of movement to reveal Sherlock, stunned and happy that John loved him and they would kiss and make up and Sherlock would tell John that he loved him too and everything would be all right.

The door remained closed.

Defeated, John went back upstairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock falls through the ice on a case and during the process of getting him in a warm bath, John sees his scars. It opens a conversation that Sherlock has wanted to avoid, and reveals things that are painful and embarrassing. He acts out, pushes John away from pain and fear, and John leaves the flat angry. He returns with Rosie and, through Sherlock's locked bedroom door, apologizes and confesses that he loves him, but Sherlock doesn't open the door and John goes back upstairs.


	17. Day 17- Shoveling Snow

John grunted, forcefully shoving the blade of the shovel into the snow in front of him, straining his muscles to lift it and tossed the snow to the side, away from the path he was clearing. He’d been at it for half an hour that morning already. He was sweaty and warm even though the temperatures were frigid, overworking himself, muscles tiring as he kept shoveling, refusing to quit.

Mrs. Hudson had asked him to shovel the snow from her back door to the bins, and then from the back door to the shed near the fence. There was absolutely no reason for it. The things stored in the shed wouldn’t be used until spring, clay pots and gardening tools and weed killing implements. John thought Mrs. Hudson was just giving him something to do, to get him out of the flat and work off excess energy. She’d been curt with John that morning, mouth pinched and displeasure radiating from her. It was clear she’d heard at least part of his and Sherlock’s row last night, and it was equally clear whose side she was on. John didn’t blame her. He wasn’t even on his own side.

John prowled around the flat all morning, pacing, unable to settle once he’d taken Rosie to the sitter’s (promising to return for her on time today). He’d hoped to see Sherlock but he hadn’t since last night, his bedroom door still resolutely closed, not a sound coming from inside. John thought he’d heard the shower that morning when he woke up, but by the time he made it downstairs, the shower was off and everything was silent again.

John scraped the shovel against the ground, picking up the pace as his thoughts circled back around to where they’d been all of last night and this morning: Sherlock’s scars and his admission of what had happened to him in Serbia. Their fight and Sherlock’s accusations.

The accusations which John could admit, in the light of day and after he’d had time to think about it, were not _completely_ as baseless as he’d like them to be. He could understand where Sherlock had got his ideas.

They weren’t true though, John fumed as he puffed his way to the shed, his breath fogging in the cold air, but he could at least understand why Sherlock would think them. But he didn’t know what he would say to Sherlock to explain away his actions of the last few years.

Maybe there wasn’t an explanation, John reasoned angrily. Maybe he was just a shit person.

John definitely thought he was after the way he’d behaved last night.

He shouldn’t have gotten mad. It gnawed at him that he’d snapped at Sherlock, let his anger get the better of him and left the flat. No matter what Sherlock said to him, he shouldn’t have gotten angry with him. Because Sherlock had revealed something deeply personal and traumatizing to John, something which had upset him, and John knew that it would be expected for Sherlock to lash out if he felt cornered or judged by John afterwards. Especially considering their fledgling relationship and all the history they had together.

He shouldn’t have gotten mad at Sherlock, and he shouldn’t have left.

John stopped mid-shovel, remorse sharp and painful. Sherlock had been upset. He’d told John he’d been raped by multiple men after being tortured for weeks. By the time the conversation had turned into a fight, he’d been crying. Sherlock. Crying. And just because Sherlock said a few mean things to him, John had gotten mad and left Sherlock hurt and rejected and alone. John had left him.

It was one of the biggest mistakes in his whole life. The knowledge destroyed John. It made him feel as if his heart would literally stop beating but it didn’t, and when it continued, each pulse was a new version of pain. John was glad of it. He deserved to feel that way, and worse.

Last night, if he had gone anywhere because he needed a moment to process and step away, to get his emotions under control and compose himself, he should have gone to his room. Or downstairs and asked Mrs. Hudson to go and get Rosie so he could take his time with Sherlock and work things out.

He should not have left Sherlock alone.

John looked up at the building, half hoping he’d see Sherlock at his bedroom window and at least know that he was okay. Sherlock’s bedroom curtains were closed and there were no sign of life anywhere. John went back to shoveling.

He hadn’t been able to sleep last night and after tossing and turning, trying not to imagine the world of hurt and pain and humiliation Sherlock might have been subjected to, he’d gone back over everything he and Sherlock had done together. He thought about the ways he’d touched Sherlock, and tried to remember if he’d noticed Sherlock being uncomfortable or scared at any point when they’d made love. Their first time, he had. When John had touched Sherlock’s cock without warning and startled him, Sherlock had instinctually shoved John away, putting the length of the bed between them so fast John hadn’t even had time to react. His eyes had been wild and while he’d managed to calm down and assure John he was okay, that was not the action of a person who claimed they were fine. Far from it.

Irresistibly, John thought of what had came after, when they’d gone achingly slowly because he’d let Sherlock set the pace, even then knowing something was wrong even if he didn’t know what, and how Sherlock had reacted. The way he curved under John’s touch and shuddered no matter where John’s hands were, innocently returning John’s touch with his own, gasping at each new sensation, then shaking apart in John’s hand, moaning beautifully. John had thought no one had ever done that to Sherlock before, taken their time and tried to give him as much pleasure as possible- and he’d been right. But someone had tried to _destroy_ that for him. They’d tortured Sherlock, then fucked him, and no one had cared about him and no one had been there to help him and last night John had left him.

John wanted to be sick.

He speared his shovel into the ground and leaned against it, closing his eyes. God, what he wouldn’t give to go back and redo last night. To hold Sherlock when he started to cry. Tell him it wasn’t true, none of it, when Sherlock accused him of horrible things. Not gotten mad. Not left. Reassured Sherlock that he loved him, nothing would change, it didn’t have to. He didn’t think any less of Sherlock for what had happened to him. How could he?

But he hadn’t.

John had trampled over everything with his characteristic selfishness because it was all about him, wasn’t it? All the time. His way. Always his way. It was something he’d accused Sherlock of long ago, but it really applied to him. Between the two of them, John was the one who was self-absorbed, only thinking about himself and his wants and needs. His anger and pain.

John started shoveling again, at a rapid pace, working off his anger because in that moment he hated himself so much he couldn’t stand it. He was so involved in the monotony of shoveling, scraping the frozen ground clear of snow and tossing it to the side, over and over, absorbed in his thoughts, that he didn’t hear the back door open. He didn’t hear the sound of someone approaching along his newly-made path, their shoes quiet on the cleared ground, until they were right behind him.

“John?”

John startled violently at Sherlock’s voice, completely unexpected in the quiet back garden, quickly spinning around, not bothering- or thinking- to lower his shovel because he didn’t expect Sherlock to be so close to him. But Sherlock was close and somehow, in his haste, before he could stop it, John’s shovel made contact with Sherlock’s face with a muffled clang.

John stared in horrified shock at Sherlock who bent over, hair falling over his forehead and hands clasped to his face. “Oh fuck, Sherlock-! I didn’t hear- I didn’t know you were there- I promise I didn’t mean to-”

Sherlock took one of his hands away and blood ran from his nose over his lips and chin, dripping in thick splats, onto the snow. John watched it, uncomprehending for a handful of seconds, before he rushed forward, apologies falling faster than Sherlock’s blood.

“I’m sorry. Fuck. I’m so sorry, I’m sorry!” He threw the shovel to the side, and hovered by Sherlock, who was still bent over, huddling around the pain. John’s hands danced in the air over Sherlock’s shoulder, wanting to touch but not sure if he was allowed. After last night, he thought not.

“I’m fine.” Sherlock’s voice was thick and more blood splattered onto the snow. It was shockingly red against the frozen whiteness. John swallowed convulsively, forcibly reminded of the last time he’d seen Sherlock bleed. He’d been responsible for that too.

“Sherlock? Are you ok? I’m…fuck…I’m sorry. I wasn’t looking, like a complete idiot-“

“It’s fine.” Sherlock insisted, sniffing experimentally and shaking his head slightly, straightening. He wiped ineffectually at the blood still dripping from his nose but only smeared it. “It’s not broken.”

“Are you sure?” John couldn’t look away from the blood. He hadn’t expected to be so affected by the sight of Sherlock’s blood. He’d seen Sherlock injured before. Christ knew he’d seen that, and more when cases and criminals and late night stake-outs ended with John patching Sherlock up in the kitchen, or, a few times, in the A&E. He’d seen Sherlock’s blood a lot over the years, but only in the last year because of something he had personally done to him. And after their fight last night, John’s emotions were too raw to handle seeing Sherlock in pain. Ever.

“Let me see?” John asked, and then, gently, as if afraid Sherlock would break, he tilted Sherlock’s head up so he could see what the damage was, praying he really hadn’t broken Sherlock’s nose. Sherlock squinted into the light, blinking away tears as his eyes watered from the pain which was to be expected when someone whacked you in the face with a bit of metal, John sarcastically berated himself.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry.” He breathed. He knew it looked worse than it was, a nose could bleed a lot, but it still looked fucking bad. “Let’s get you inside?”

Sherlock pinched his nose with one hand and John took his other and lead him inside. Sherlock clutched his nose tighter so he wouldn’t get any blood in Mrs. Hudson’s flat or on her carpets, leaning back exaggeratedly so none of it dripped, and then they staggered up the stairs to the loo. John told Sherlock to go and sit on the lid of the toilet while he went and got ice.

There wasn’t any ice. There never was. John agitatedly grabbed a bag of frozen riced cauliflower, one of Rosie’s favorite meals, and his medical kit.

Sherlock was sat where John had told him, his head leaned back and a handful of toilet roll held to his nose. When he saw John enter he gave him a small smile which John knew he didn’t deserve.

“I know you didn’t mean to, John.”

John sighed. “I really didn’t.”

Sherlock checked to see if the bleeding had stopped and then reapplied the tissue. “Accidents happen.”

“It still doesn’t excuse…” John gestured to Sherlock’s face, absentmindedly breaking up the frozen cauliflower for when the bleeding stopped. The bag crunched, crunched, crunched in his hand as he worried it between his fingers. Now that he had Sherlock here, out of his room and apparently on his own volition, he didn’t know what to say to him. Or even where to begin.

“I shouldn’t have snuck up on you.” Sherlock said and John’s eyes flew to meet his. “But I heard you shoveling snow and thought I’d...go down and have a chat.” He checked to see if the bleeding had stopped yet, sniffing, and avoiding John’s eyes. “I came down to apologize.”

John stared in disbelief. “What...You…? What would _you_ have to apologize for?”

“I was unkind.” Sherlock threw away the soiled tissue and John wordlessly handed him the cauliflower. He gingerly pressed it to his nose with a wince.“Some of the things I said to you last night were unkind and very unfair.”

“No less than what I deserved.” John remarked, and Sherlock sighed, lowering the cauliflower from his face so he could give John a Look.

“John…”

“ _No_. Sherlock. What you said, all of it last night, I deserved. And then some.” John nervously flexed his hands, rubbing them over his jeans. Sherlock applied the cauliflower again and waited.

“I apologized to you last night. Through the door.”

“I heard.” Sherlock said quietly, not looking at John, instead watching as he ran his socked feet along the grouting between the tiles, fidgeting.

“I apologized.” John repeated. “And I’ve been thinking and...an apology isn’t worth shit, is it?”

Sherlock finally looked at him, surprised, not knowing where John was going with this. John didn’t know either, but he plowed ahead.

“An apology, just saying you’re sorry, that’s not a lot.” He said. “I can tell you that I’m sorry over and over and over again, but it doesn’t mean a fucking thing if I don’t know what I’m sorry for. It doesn’t matter if I say it, if I don’t know what I did in the first place, and how to fix it so it won’t happen again.”

There was so much to say that John didn’t know where to begin. To make it simple, he began at the beginning. He hesitated, then knelt in front of Sherlock, on the cold tiles, and Sherlock’s eyes flared in surprise over his bag of cauliflower. John didn’t touch him or reach out. He just knelt there, looking up at Sherlock, his hands held loosely in his own lap.

“Do you remember the day we met?”

Sherlock smiled and John’s heart leapt because he wondered if Sherlock thought of that day the same way he did.

“Yes. I remember.”

“What about the day when we came here? Or that night at Angelo’s? The murderous cabbie?”

“Of course.”

“I was in love with you.” John confessed and Sherlock went still, not even breathing. “Even then. That night at the restaurant, at Angelo’s, I was already in love with you. I tried hitting on you.”

“I turned you down.” Sherlock replied and John smiled crookedly.

“Yeah. You turned me down. I understood what you were saying. You weren’t interested. And you know what?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“That was okay with me. Your rejection, your amazingly polite way of telling me you didn’t want a romantic relationship. It was okay. If you didn’t want to date me I was fine with that, because what we had together was _incredible_ , Sherlock. I’ve never been that close to someone before, like I was with you. And instantly, too. From that first day, you know? That first night and we just got closer after that. It didn’t matter to me if we weren’t kissing or shagging or sharing a bed. Any of that. Because we were sharing our lives together, every single day, and just being near you was enough for me.

"You were- and still are- gorgeous.” John grinned and he could feel himself tearing up, his eyes starting to water, but Sherlock was staring at him as if he were doing something extraordinary so he didn’t care, wasn’t even embarrassed. “You were mad and brilliant and...and the feeling I got from being around you was like being near a lightning strike. You were electric and dangerous and consuming, and I could feel the static charge in the air, and hear the crackle and buzz, whenever I was near you.”

John swallowed heavily, his throat closing up. “Then you died. And all that stopped being enough.”

Sherlock leaned forward and his hand slid into John’s, pulling it from John’s lap and resting their joined hands on his knee. John stared at them as they blurred and he tried to find his voice again.

“I hurt you.” Sherlock murmured, and John shook his head, mouth twisting, because it wasn’t just that.

“You died, Sherlock.” He began. “I watched it happen because you wanted me to see it. And suddenly...all of the things we didn’t have that I thought had been okay- the relationship we could have had, the things I’d wanted to say to you and hadn’t, the cruelty of everything we had missed by not being together...it was all too much. We could have been so much more to each other. Because all that time, Sherlock, every single day...I loved you. And then you were gone.”

Sherlock squeezed John’s hand and he gripped back, equally hard, unable to tell which of them were shaking. Maybe they both were.

“And the regrets built up, more and more, every day. I thought about what we could have had, and how maybe I had driven you to commit suicide. Or what if I had just done this, or that. Or maybe if I’d not said this, or if I _had_ said that you wouldn’t have killed yourself and you’d still be alive and I’d still have you.” Those had been dark days, and even thinking of them brought back the wash of pain and sadness, the struggle. “I mourned for you. Two years. I wanted to die with you.”

It sounded melodramatic. Something a teenager would tearfully say to the person they were in love with, not a grown man who was kneeling on a bathroom floor, holding his lover’s hand, and crying. John took a deep breath, raising his shoulders to wipe away what tears he could.

“So. When I met Mary, I thought.” He shrugged apologetically because this part made him sound like a jerk. “I thought, she’s not you, Sherlock. Not even close. But she wants me. She seems happy enough to be with me. I thought I was never getting you back again. You were dead. People don’t just...come back to life after they kill themselves, do they?” John huffed a weak laugh and it must have sounded as terrible as it felt because Sherlock’s grip increased. “So, I thought: why not give it a go? And it was okay, Sherlock. With her. It really was. It wasn’t thrilling and dangerous and ridiculous like it had been with you, and Mary and I didn’t laugh like you and I had, and I didn’t feel this…” John gestured at his chest, hand trembling near his heart, trying to convey the weight he felt and what he meant because it was unfathomable what he’d felt for Sherlock, he couldn’t put it into actual words. “I didn’t feel that when I was with her. But it was okay. If that was all I could have, it would be enough.

“I was furious at you when you came back.” John admitted, but the years had done a lot to temper his anger and now all he felt when he remembered that time was a sadness at himself for his resulting actions. “Furious. I was hurt and angry and resentful...and I loved you. Sherlock, I loved you _so fucking much_ and I hated it because...why had you done that to me? Why had you put me through that, made me watch you kill yourself, when I loved you so much? You had to have known, I thought, how much I cared for you. And.” John gulped, his eyes hot and itchy. “If you could do that to me...what else was possible? Maybe...maybe you hadn’t felt anything for me after all. Maybe I’d just been a pet, like Moriarty had said. A diversion. Or maybe I’d been less than that. I dunno. I let myself think the worst about you and grabbed all that to myself like...like it would protect me somehow from getting hurt by you again. Even when I came back and we started solving cases, I wouldn’t let it go. I didn’t want to. I resented you because every time I saw you….every single time, Sherlock….I wanted you.”

John sniffed. The collar of his shirt was getting wet, and fat drops fell from his chin to stain the thighs of his jeans, and he felt like a moron, blubbering and being ridiculous. He probably wasn’t even making any sense. When he looked at Sherlock, though, he was looking back at John as if he’d never seen him properly before, and it gave John the courage to push through.

But what was next? What could he say to let Sherlock know what he’d felt, and why he’d done what he did?

“Do you remember when you taught me to dance for the wedding?”

Sherlock’s breath sighed out in surprise, his lips parting as he nodded. “Yes.”

John smiled at him through his tears. “You love dancing. You told Janine that and she told Mary. And Mary told me.” His smile turned rueful. “And I loved dancing with you. I was shit at it, but you didn’t laugh and you taught me the steps. I was angry, but you knew that. I was always angry those days. And that kept me safe the first couple days, being so close to you. But. Do you remember that last day?”

Sherlock nodded again, entranced.

“I knew what I wanted that day. Suddenly it all made sense and god, _I wanted you_ , Sherlock. I didn’t want to be mad at you anymore and I didn’t want to keep denying that I loved you and I wanted….I wanted you so much. But I didn’t think you deserved my forgiveness, after what you’d done. And I didn’t want you knowing how...how pathetic I was because that’s what it felt like. That you could put me through that and I’d just...come crawling back. I was trying to punish you, but all I did was hurt myself. And now I know how much I’ve hurt both of us.”

John’s knees were starting to ache and his lower legs were going numb, but he didn’t want to move. He wanted to stay right there, at Sherlock’s feet, and try and make him understand.

“When Mary died that wasn’t your fault.”

“We’ve talked about that, John.” Sherlock reminded him and John nodded.

“Yeah, I know. But the letter I wrote you. None of that was true either. None of it. Then...that day in the hospital…”

They both paused, each remembering that day, the pain and doubt and fear. The feel of their relationship fracturing beyond repair and at least one of them not wanting to try and fix it.

“It couldn’t have been easy,” Sherlock said slowly, “watching your best friend off his tits on drugs.”

“That’s no excuse for what I did and you know it.”

“Grief…It affects people in different ways. Manifests itself in endless variations. After an unalterable life event, while one person may turn to drinking, others may suddenly become more outgoing. Vivacious. Take up new hobbies and fill the void with work or volunteering or… I once knew a man who, after his wife died, began dressing in drag and working at nightclubs. He owns his own business in Soho now. We should go sometime for the cabaret.” Sherlock smiled when John was forced to laugh. It was a wet laugh, and shaky, but still a laugh. “My point is that no one knows how they will react when put under that sort of emotional pressure, and so soon after Mary…and then watching me lose control like that. It had to have been painful.”

Painful wasn’t really the word for it. Gut-wrenching, soul shattering. John hadn’t taken care of Rosie. He’d gone to and from work like a zombie, getting drunk every evening. He remembered writing his letter to Sherlock, telling him what he thought of him, and how he never wanted to see him again.

That was no excuse.

This wasn’t about John and his petty grief anymore. It was time to move on. This was about Sherlock.

From now on, it was _always_ about Sherlock.

“Had to have been painful for you when I beat you to a pulp.”

“It was hardly to that degree, John. I really think you’re being-”

“I’m not being ridiculous, Sherlock. You had to be put in hospital.”

“The bender I was on contributed to that. I was severely dehydrated. It wasn’t entirely your fault, in fact you-“

“Stop making excuses for me.” John scolded gently. “I don’t deserve them. I knew what I was doing when I did it, and I did anyway. And you know why?”

Sherlock shook his head again, lowering his bag of cauliflower so he could see John better.

“When Mary was killed, it wasn’t your fault. I told you that. And if it’d been a choice between you and her, I would have chosen you. What I didn’t tell you…” John broke off, struggling. “What I didn’t tell you was that I...I wasn’t sad. When she died. I didn’t want her to die,” He explained quickly, before Sherlock got the wrong idea. John hoped he wasn’t that much of an arsehole. “I would never want that, or wish it on her. But. When she was dead, I didn’t really…miss her. By that point, after everything she and I had gone through, I didn’t love her. I couldn’t. I wanted out. And that made me feel so bad. I didn’t even like the mother of my child and when she was dead…I didn’t care. How am I supposed to explain that to Rosie one day? I thought I was a bad person. And then I’d gotten rid of you because I was being a prick, and knowing that I’d ruined our relationship, left me...in a bad place. That’s still no excuse. It was inexcusable what I did, but I am so sorry for it.”

“John…”

John squeezed both of Sherlock’s hands in his and, feeling like a supplicant, began what he’d wanted to say all along.

“What you said last night, Sherlock...you were wrong. The problem wasn’t with _you_ , Sherlock. Of me not thinking you were worthy of my time and leaving you until last, until I was out of options. That was never it. The problem was with me. I’ve been weak and resentful, blaming you for things you had no way to control, for events that were beyond our control and for things we couldn’t change. I’ve been selfish and bitter, thinking only about my pain and how you’d hurt me. How angry I felt. How you didn’t deserve my forgiveness. What you could do to make it up to me and how entitled I was after everything. I’ve been so busy being self-centered, I couldn’t see what was right in front of me: that you were hurting. You needed me and I should have been making things up to you and proving, every single day since you returned, that I was happy you were back and that I loved you. That,” John said. “Is what I’m the most sorry for. I may have been weak and resentful, selfish and bitter, but I’ve never stopped loving you, Sherlock. I don’t deserve you. I’m not a good person, we both know that. But...I want to spend the rest of my life doing everything I can possibly do to make myself worthy of you. Because that’s what you deserve. And not because I pity you, and not because I feel sorry for you...because I love you. And...I want you to feel. _So loved_.”

The tears were back again and this time John knew he was the one shaking but he couldn’t control it.

“I want you to feel so loved that you’ll never doubt it, ever, for a moment. It’s what I should have been doing this whole time, treating you the way you deserve to be treated. And I haven’t. And for _that_ , I’m sorry.”

* * *

 

“John.”

Coherent thoughts weren’t possible. Everything in his mind was in shambles, obliterated, as Sherlock tried to make sense of what John had just told him. He clutched John’s hand as hard as he could, his attention flitting from one piece of information to another, drawing lines and connections and remembering instances and looks and feelings and-

It was too much. It wasn’t possible.

Sherlock leaned forward, needing a connection, pressing his forehead against John’s and breathed, one truth surfacing above the others.

John wouldn’t lie to him.

In all their years, no matter what, John had never lied to him. There had been white lies here and there. Sarcastic remarks. Throwaway stuff that didn’t mean anything. John had never deliberately lied to Sherlock about something important.

But what if he was lying now?

Sherlock was terrified.

John Watson was the only one person in the world who could hurt him, really hurt him. He had in the past. He could again. Sherlock didn’t want John to hurt him, but he didn’t want to be without John either because that would hurt worse than anything.

He was scared.

He didn’t know what to do and everything was in riot because if what John said was true, then the way forward was simple. But if John were lying, it meant _everything_ had been a lie.

Sherlock opened his eyes and John stared at him from inches away with so much affection and warmth, not pushing or trying to sway Sherlock to what he wanted, but patiently waiting for him to weigh and measure him, and find him wanting...or not.

_“...it’s because I love you.”_

John’s words from last night came back to him, muffled through his bedroom door as Sherlock had sat on the other side, listening to John apologize with an agonized voice. He’d been hurting and hadn’t responded, but he’d still heard and Sherlock thought about what could happen if what John said was true. If he’d always loved him and Sherlock was good enough and he loved him and he was sorry for hurting him and he loved him and they could be together and he loved him and…

It could be fake.

Or it could be all real.

The answer was right in front of him.

Sherlock sighed, relaxing, tension he hadn’t realized he’d been holding leaving his body as he made the deliberate and conscious decision to trust John. It was easy. It was something he’d been doing for years, knowing he could always count on John to be there for him, help him, believe in him when no one else could, and it was soothing to have that again, John’s love and devotion, unfettered and freely given, trusting in it to bear him up like it used to.

Sherlock smiled, happier than he’d been in months. “I’m cold.” He said and John frowned.

That had not been the answer he was looking for, but he took it in stride, nodding. “Okay. Right. I’ll go and-”

“From yesterday,” Sherlock clarified before John could stand. “I’m still cold. Yesterday, after I fell through the ice, you said something about warming me up yourself.” He glanced up at John, willing him to understand, and this time it was John’s turn to blink in confusion.

“O...kay.” He said, eyes narrowing as he tried to understand. “Then we can…if you want...”

“I do.”

First, John insisted on sponging the blood off Sherlock’s face with soft, gentle swipes, cleaning him carefully and Sherlock took the opportunity to unabashedly stare at him, at all the new wrinkles on his face and his pretty eyes and the way his lips thinned down when he had to scrub at a bit of dried blood, turning Sherlock’s delicate skin pink. He loved him.

John hesitantly followed Sherlock to his bedroom, still unsure what he meant for them to do, and he stopped Sherlock when he tried to pull his jumper over his head.

“Sherlock...that’s not...I don’t think we should.” He spoke as gently as he could, being so careful not to hurt Sherlock’s feelings. “I meant what I said last night. I want to take this slow because I want you to absolutely and completely fucking love anything we might do and I want everything I do to you to give you so much pleasure.”

“I know.” Sherlock tugged the garment out of John’s grip. “But we aren’t going to do anything sexual.”

John let Sherlock strip him out of his clothes, down to his pants, and then watched as Sherlock did the same before he led him to the bed and beneath the soft duvet and sheets. Once there, they lay on their sides, staring at each other from their separate pillows, until John hesitantly reached for him and Sherlock immediately rushed forward and tangled himself around John with a little cry. Skin against skin, as close as it was possible to be.

And Sherlock was right. It wasn’t sexual. It was about contact and love, holding each other after the storm, breathing in the sighs and sounds of the other as they clung to each other and maybe cried a bit, but that wouldn't be mentioned. Sherlock wedged one of his knees between John’s and his arm around his middle, while John let Sherlock rest his head on his arm and pulled Sherlock as close.

John sighed and pressed his lips against Sherlock’s forehead. Sherlock could feel him shaking and he hugged John tighter, letting John’s words wash over him as he murmured them against Sherlock’s hair.

“I love you, I love you. Sherlock, I love you so much…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone want to guess which Jane Austen hero I based John's apology on? (hint: it's not Pride and Prejudice) :D


	18. Day 18- Sleep

Sherlock didn’t even realize that he’d fallen asleep until he was waking up, heavy-eyed and languid. He was huddled in John’s arms, his face pushed against John’s chest, while John himself slept on, snoring slightly on every inhale. They were sealed together, from chest to knee, and it was stifling and sweaty. Sherlock had no desire to move even an inch. He was warm and comfortable. John was holding him. John had told him that he loved him.

Sherlock didn’t think that meant things would automatically be okay now. He was a realist even if he was in love, not a moron. There were issues that needed to be addressed eventually. Small details worked out and in some way solved. But the bulk of their problems- while still existing because no one could erase the past even with pretty words- those were finished. Soothed into a state of being they could both live with and that wouldn’t hurt them anymore, not as much. John said he loved Sherlock, had loved him since the day they met. Sherlock had decided to trust him.

Sherlock tried moving even closer to John, burrowing beneath the duvet which was too hot after their nap, but he craved the contact. His heart raced, sped ahead at a mile a second at the idea that he was actually going to get to have _this_. With John. After everything they had gone through, the hurtful things they’d done to each other (because Sherlock knew he was at fault for some things as well), and said and thought…that was all behind them.

Their future was still tentative. What it would really be like together, Sherlock couldn’t hazard a guess.

Well. He _could_ have, but after everything John had told him earlier, if it was true (which Sherlock believed it was) then he had been wrong about a lot of things when it came to John. Sherlock’s affection for him had acted against his logic, the grit in the lens, the fly in the ointment, skewing his logic and rendering his results flawed. His previous conjectures had been mistaken and Sherlock could see the different turnings events could have taken if he hadn’t assumed this, or thought that, or reacted in such and such a way.

Those thoughts, however, were counterproductive.

Because he was here _now_ , wrapped in John’s arms, with John’s love, and Sherlock had learned his lesson about making sweeping assumptions about John Watson.

The memory of John’s heartfelt confession in the loo was enough to bring all the emotions which were still lingering at the surface, tense and overwrought, not yet soothed from their nap, roaring back again. Sherlock’s chest expanded, his ribs not big enough to contain it all, everything he felt, and while he knew that wasn’t logical- emotions weren’t stored in the thoracic cavity- it certainly felt that way. Flutterings of panic and bubbles of hope, rising joy and happiness, his lungs constricting tight as he tried to contain it all and his heart pounding a frantic tattoo against his skin. He was giddy, and in love.

John loved him.

Not everything John had said had been nice. Parts of John’s speech had been painful to hear, but others were wonderful, and some parts answered questions to enigmas Sherlock had wondered about for a while. Some parts astounded Sherlock, and he found them hard to believe, even now. That John had loved him for years. They’d hurt each other reacting in pained love without knowing that was why the other person was reacting as well. It was an ironic tragedy that could have made everything lost. It hadn’t. They were together now.

Sherlock smiled and pressed a delicate kiss to John’s chest, tasting skin and sweat, and John made a noise in his sleep but didn’t wake up.

They’d both been so tired. Neither had slept the previous night after their fight and crying sent the body into recovery as hormone levels dropped and the need to sleep increased. It was still daylight outside, so they couldn’t have slept for very long. Sherlock thought the way he felt, happy and relaxed, had more to do with what John had said than the amount he’d slept. But sleeping with John had been very nice too.

More than nice, Sherlock amended, as his body flushed in the first stages of arousal, his cock slowly plumping against John’s thigh. It was a very natural reaction because the human body’s response to intense emotional situations could sometimes lead to feelings of a sexual nature and since he and John already had an established relationship and an obvious sexual chemistry, Sherlock’s body misinterpreted all the emotions he was feeling and translated that to arousal.

All of this was, of course, a polite way to say that Sherlock Holmes had woken up horny.

_“…I want everything I do to you to give you so much pleasure.”_

Sherlock made a small noise as he irresistibly thought of John focused only on him, giving him pleasure like he had the last few nights, and more, in endlessly creative ways. Doing things to Sherlock because he wanted to and because he wanted to see how hard he could make Sherlock come. Sherlock’s breathing went shallow.

John suddenly inhaled deeply, sending Sherlock’s heart skidding into a panic, coming awake sluggishly, his arm tightening around him for a brief moment. “Mmmm. Sherlock? What time’s it?”

“A little after noon.” It was a hazarded guess. He didn’t hear the news show Mrs. Hudson liked to watch in the late afternoons playing beneath his bedroom floor; instead, it sounded like the period drama she watched every day right after lunch. He didn’t want to move and look at the clock and draw attention to himself. He wondered if John hadn’t noticed his erection yet, or had but was being too polite to say anything.

“I’ll have to go and pick Rosie up from the sitter’s soon.” John said and Sherlock grunted noncommittally, willing himself to go soft again. It was probably bad form to get in a very personal fight with your significant other just the previous day, each of you breaking the other’s heart, and then want them to make you come the next day just after you’d both literally cried in each other’s arms while making up.

Probably very bad.

Sherlock jumped when John’s hand came up, cradling his cheek and turning his face up so John could see him. He looked worried, brow puckered, and his thumb traced over Sherlock’s cheek slowly.

“You all right?”

Sherlock nodded because yes, he was fine, and his eyes dropped down to stare helplessly at John’s lips, which curved upward before kissing him, John’s hand gentle against his cheek. Sherlock ran his fingers through John’s short hair, nails lightly scratching against his scalp, and John made a noise against his lips and kissed him harder. It was indescribably intimate to kiss John like this, when they were both almost naked, laying in bed beneath the sheets and Sherlock didn’t have to worry about repulsive discoveries or John’s possible disgust. Everything was open and honest between them and John wanted him. John loved him. Brazenly, Sherlock hooked a leg over John’s hips, pulling him closer, and it gave him the perfect angle to rub his cock against John’s own.

John was hard. Sherlock’s relief was immediate. It wasn’t just him who was affected by this then. He moaned and tugged John closer, frotting against him deliberately and John’s breath hitched, his lips going almost slack against Sherlock’s before he was falling back into the kiss, moving forward and giving Sherlock the perfect advantage to grind against him.

The pleasure tingled and grew and Sherlock closed his eyes and let John do as he pleased because he clearly needed no help or guidance, kissing over Sherlock’s cheek and down his chin, sighing when his lips skated over his neck. Sherlock tightened his arms around John’s shoulders in mute encouragement and thrust against John harder, with more force, and John countered, pumping his hips, making Sherlock gasp and accidentally dig his fingernails into John’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry-“

“It’s fine.” John held himself immobile for a few seconds, his muscles trembling and allowed himself one more kiss to Sherlock’s neck, then lifted his head, pulling away. “We should get up.”

Sherlock, who had been expecting this interlude to lead somewhere in which he and John both had spectacular orgasms, frowned. “Why?”

John didn’t have to go and get Rosie for a few hours yet. They could lay in bed a while longer and touch each other.

“Well, for starters we both need to eat.” John said and Sherlock opened his mouth to protest but his stomach chose that moment to betray him, letting out a gurgling growl. “We both need to eat, Sherlock. I didn’t have breakfast and I’m assuming you didn’t either. But we’ll order something in, I’ll go and get Rosie, and we’ll feed each other up and have a quiet night. Food, Rosie, maybe something on the telly you can deduce. And then tonight,” he leaned closer, over Sherlock who eagerly let himself be pushed back against the pillows, “we can go to bed. And I will do anything you want me to do to you, as many times as you want.”

John’s voice was low, intimate, and Sherlock’s body reacted to it with a hot flash of urgency. He felt himself blush, all the way down his neck and staining his chest in blotches. His cock hardened, it hadn’t really gone soft, as he imagined it: taking John to bed and laying together naked, with John’s amazing mouth all over his body.

“Yes.” Sherlock’s voice cracked embarrassingly. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I mean. Yes. That. Sounds fine.”

John grinned, excited, and kissed him again, tongue delicately tracing over Sherlock’s bottom lip first, and Sherlock was already so hard and John’s tongue was doing wonderful things in his mouth and he moaned, cock throbbing, trapped in his pants. He shifted restlessly, trying to relieve the ache because he could wait until tonight. He could wait until John would do unspeakable things to him, whatever Sherlock wanted.

God, he _wanted_.

The ideas spun themselves out in Sherlock’s mind, each more debauched than the next. And while he was breathless in excitement for John to do those things to him, Sherlock imagined what he could do to John too. Taking his time, able to lick and kiss and suck John everywhere he wanted and make him come and know he’d done that and what would John look like when Sherlock did that to him and-

Sherlock was breathing too hard, ragged, and he broke his kiss with John with a small groan.

“ _Christ_ , Sherlock.” John breathed like he was in pain and Sherlock didn’t know what was wrong, or what John was talking about. He was so hard it hurt, his body reacting to John and his kisses and the ideas of what would happen that night, but this wasn’t supposed to be going anywhere and Sherlock experienced a sick swipe of shame, there and gone, at the way he was acting, his hips twitching slightly as he sought out contact for his cock. He forcefully locked his muscles, trying to stop.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered, agonized. “I didn’t mean to-“

“God, no- don’t apologize, Sherlock. Don’t stop.” John’s hands were at his hips, rubbing where his muscles were tensed. “God, you’re so gorgeous when you’re like this.” John’s fingers dug harder at Sherlock’s hips and he bucked upward. “What do you want, love? Can I make you come, Sherlock? Can I-?”

“Please?” Sherlock sucked in a breath as John’s hand slid beneath the waistband of his pants and he closed his eyes when the tips of John’s fingers brushed against his sensitive cock.

“Please.” Sherlock whispered again but he didn’t need to beg because John was already giving him the firm grip he needed and stroking him.

“God, I can’t wait to do this again to you tonight. Anything you want, love.” John said, body tight against him. “Anything...”

“John!” Sherlock tried not to thrust into his hand, but it was still over embarrassingly quickly, Sherlock shuddering through an orgasm while John nipped kisses on his cheeks and chin, causing shivery aftershocks.

His pants were wet now, and sticky, his body relaxed and Sherlock slowly became aware that John was laughing, leaned against his side, with Sherlock’s come on his hand, giggling.

“What?” He asked defensively, ready to be offended, but John quickly scrambled up and kissed Sherlock, his giggles erupting between their lips and it was so silly, and wonderful, that Sherlock chuckled weakly. He supposed he had acted foolishly.

“You, Sherlock Holmes, are going to be the fucking death of me.” John pronounced, his entire face alight with happiness.

“What do you mean?”

“That. Just now.” John nodded at Sherlock’s cock and he glanced down where it was still demurely inside his pants, although they were stained in a very telling way now.

“I’m sorry about that. I just…wanted. You.” Sherlock confessed and John shook his head, smiling.

“That’s what I mean. I’m getting old and I can’t handle that much stress on my heart because you needing me like that, and then…you are always the fucking hottest, most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen when you come.”

“Oh.” Sherlock could feel himself blushing. He glanced down and noticed John was still hard. “Do you want me to…?”

“No, that’s okay.” John giggled again. “I can wait until tonight.”

The implication being that Sherlock couldn’t and shame was a slight twinge. “I should have been able to wait…”

“No. None of that.” John said, mock-sternly, and kissed Sherlock until he stopped trying to apologize, then kissed him a bit more just for good measure. By the time they parted, Sherlock was the one giggling and John was groaning exaggeratedly as he got up from the bed, wincing when he fixed his erection in his pants.

“Tonight can’t come soon enough.” He quipped and they both dissolved into giggles again. “Oh, and for the record? If you ever need me toss you off again and kiss you silly, anytime, anywhere, just let me know.” He winked.

“Mm. Thank you. Although, maybe next time I’ll ask for something different and you won’t be able to kiss me silly during it.” Sherlock suggested, audacious, and he watched John absorb that statement, sort through the meaning of it, and knew he’d got it when John’s eyes darkened. He licked his lips as a flush stole up his neck and he knelt back on the bed, irresistibly drawn back to Sherlock.

“That’s…Sherlock. God-yes…“

“We need to get up.” Sherlock bounced up from the bed with more grace than he’d thought he would with wet pants, and behind him John fell across the bed, moaning. Sherlock grinned. This was fun, joking with John about these things, and when he looked back, John gave him a big grin in return.

* * *

 

“Do you mind if I go and get her?”

John stopped, his jacket halfway zipped. Sherlock had just emerged from the loo fully dressed. His hair was wet and freshly combed, shirt buttoned impeccably, and trousers pressed without even a wrinkle. He looked much more put together than John was, who’d just finger brushed his hair and thrown on what he’d been wearing earlier. “What?”

“Would you mind if I went and picked Rosie up?”

“Well. I mean. Yeah. Of course. If you want.” John shrugged. “I don’t mind. You’re on the list of people who can pick her up anyway.”

“I…am?”

“Yeah, of course you are.” John took his jacket off and hung it up, reaching for Sherlock’s own coat and scarf. “Wrap up warm though. After yesterday’s dunking in the lake you still might get sick and what sort of doctor would I be if I let my boyfriend get sick, hm?”

Sherlock blinked, looking from John’s outstretched hand with his coat, to John’s face, and back again. He slowly took it from John, who gave him another smile, and while Sherlock did as John instructed, John called out restaurant names to him from the kitchen to pick from so he could order while Sherlock was gone.

“I guess I’ll order extra meatballs for Rosie, even though she probably won’t eat them.” John said, perusing the menu Sherlock had chosen. “Do you want the gnocchi or-…Sherlock? What is-?”

The rest of John’s sentence was cut short when Sherlock kissed him, deeply and long enough that John whined and when Sherlock pulled away, John’s eyes had gone dark and wide again. Sherlock gave him a smirk, extremely gratified by being able to put that look on John’s face.

“I’ll be back.”

* * *

 

When Rosie saw her fluffy daddy waiting to pick her up, the same fluffy daddy she hadn’t seen in what felt like forever, the same fluffy daddy who hadn’t kissed her goodnight last night and hadn’t kissed her good morning this morning and hadn’t smiled at her or let her open another door in the little Christmas tree, she was so surprised and happy, upset and angry, that she had a meltdown right then and there in the foyer of Mrs. Johnson’s nursery. The scrawled crayon drawing she’d been clutching to take home with her fluttered to the floor as she threw back her head and wailed.

Sherlock rushed to scoop her up and Rosie grabbed at his coat, burying her face in his chest and leaving trails of snot and tears everywhere while she bawled.

“What’s wrong, darling?” Sherlock gave Mrs. Johnson a glare. “What happened?”

“I don’t know!” She wrung her hands. “She’s been fine all day. I promise. A little mopey, more than usual, but I just thought she was getting sick. All the kids are. Something’s always going around, you know. Looked peaky. I was going to mention it to Doctor Watson when he picked her up this evening.”

“I’ll let him know.” Sherlock cradled Rosie while she sobbed into his coat like her heart was broken, her fists in a death grip on his clothes, and tried to comfort her. There seemed to be no end. Just when Sherlock thought she would stop, another round of tears and howls would start up again which were painful to both Sherlock’s ears, and his heart.

“What’s wrong? Ssshh. Rosie? What is it, darling?” He murmured gently, trying to calm her down before they started the walk back to the flat, pacing in the foyer while Mrs. Johnson went to go and see to the other children. “I thought you’d be happy to see me.”

Rosie hiccupped and then sobbed a bit more. She was so confused. She loved her fluffy daddy. She was so happy he was there and holding her. But he had been gone. He hadn’t listened to her when she called for him. She had called and called and he hadn’t answered. He hadn’t smiled at her. He hadn’t held her. She’d been worried about him.

“Da…” She replied tremulously and Sherlock hugged her tighter.

“I missed you, Rosie. I missed you so much.” Her fluffy daddy purred, swaying them around the foyer which almost felt like dancing. Rosie loved when her fluffy daddy danced with her, letting her stand on his feet while he held her hands and moved them all over the flat. “I missed you, darling. I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I’m sorry.”

Rosie raised her head from Sherlock’s chest. Her face was red from crying and her hair was mussed. The pretty bow- that didn’t match anything else she was wearing, Sherlock noticed- which John had pinned in that morning was lopsided. Sherlock looked at her worriedly and seeing her fluffy daddy again and knowing that he still loved her and that he was all right and that he had come to take her home started Rosie’s lip to quivering again.

“Da-dy!” Rosie managed to wail before collapsing into sobs again, throwing her arms around Sherlock’s neck and clinging to him as if he were trying to leave.

“Want me to take you to your daddy?” Sherlock asked, and when Rosie didn’t reply he rubbed her back comfortingly. “All right, darling. We’re going home.”

* * *

 

The smell of food met Sherlock and Rosie at the door and Rosie, whose crying had tapered off as Sherlock walked, perked up her head. She hadn’t been able to concentrate on crying when they walked down the streets, eager to see the people and cars and buses that passed and watch what was happening around her. All of that was far too interesting to be able to remember that she was sad. Fluffy daddy was taller too and so she could see a lot farther than when her other daddy carried her.

“What took so long?” John asked, laying out all the food, plates of steaming pasta and garlicky bread, and moving Rosie’s highchair over to the table.

“She was upset I came to get her, I think.” Sherlock handed Rosie to John. “I think she expected to see you and I surprised her.”

“Mm.” John let Rosie down when she wriggled and she trotted back to Sherlock, pulling on his trousers as she tried to climb into his lap. He picked her up and settled her at the table, her face peeking over the edge. John made a disapproving noise, handing Sherlock silverware.

“She can eat in her highchair, Sherlock. She doesn’t need to sit in your lap for every meal. You need to eat too, you know.”

“She doesn’t bother me.” Sherlock disputed, letting Rosie sniff a piece of garlic bread and smiling when she shook her head, disgusted. “I can eat while she’s sitting there. She’s fine right where she is.”

* * *

 

“You get to open two doors since I wasn’t…well, since we didn’t get to last night.”

Rosie knelt in front of the Christmas advent and bounced on her bottom, eager for her fluffy daddy to point at which doors she would be allowed to open. As soon as he did, she scrambled forward. The first door was a tiny, palm-sized notebook with a glittery pen attached which Rosie could scribble in as much as she wanted. It could fit in her pockets even, which Sherlock showed her, and Rosie enjoyed the novelty of putting her notebook in her pocket, walking a few steps with it there, and then pausing dramatically take it out, repeating this again and again.

The second door was a tiny child’s play phone that flipped open and closed, rang, made sounds when the buttons were pressed, and echoed Rosie’s voice back to her when she talked into the mouthpiece. She squealed, excited, because her daddy’s never let her play on their phones for very long, and when they did they only let her play flashy games. This was her own phone, and she felt very important pushing the buttons and pretending to call her uncle My, and Aunty Molly, and Geg and pretending to tell them about her new phone. They would be very interested, Rosie knew. They were always interested with her. She chatted on her phone and wrote a few things in her new notebook, scribbling with the pretty pen, like she’d seen her daddy do.

The next time her phone rang, it was for her fluffy daddy and Rosie jabbered into the mouthpiece while she scampered over to him on the sofa. He wasn’t paying attention, touching faces with her other daddy, and Rosie had to yell to make him look at her.

“I’m sorry, darling.” He apologized. “Who is it?”

“Geg.” Rosie said and her fluffy daddy thanked her and said a few words into the mouthpiece which made her other daddy laugh. So Rosie decided to laugh with them because it was fun, and when her fluffy daddy handed the phone back, she repeated one of the words he’d said because it was easy and she could actually say it.

“Hell!” She chirped into the mouthpiece. “Hell, hell, hell!”

“ _Sherlock_!”

* * *

 

Mrs. Hudson came up later for leftover pasta and she opened a bottle of wine she found in their fridge. They gathered their glasses and plates and sat in the living room to watch a marathon of a baking show Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson loved. The Christmas lights were all on, the lights around the rest of the room sparkling, and the sprigs of mistletoe still hung gaily from their lofty perches. On the sofa, John took Sherlock’s hand and held it loosely between them.

As a contestant’s croquembouche fell and they collapsed into frustrated tears, Mrs. Hudson tsked sympathetically, then sighed happily, shooting a glance at Sherlock and John and refilling her glass from the bottle of wine. “Isn’t this nice?”

“Mm. Very cozy.” John agreed, trying to wipe blue icing from Rosie’s face while she snaked her tongue out as far as it would go and tried to lick it. There were broken Christmas cookies scattered on the table in front of the sofa which Rosie had been both eating and playing with, and was now apparently trying to wear.

“I just love the holidays.” She said, offering to refill Sherlock’s glass but he shook his head. “Especially when there’s such good company, and food, and wine, and good programs on the telly. It just makes you feel so…happy.”

“How many glasses have you had?” Sherlock asked drily, but Mrs. Hudson smiled. Nothing could upset her tonight.

“Not that many, young man, but you know, I think I will go back downstairs. Get out of your hair. I’m sure you have better things to do than entertain an old lady.”

John protested, giving Sherlock a Look, but Mrs. Hudson waved him away.

“No, no, John. It’s fine. I have better things to do than sit here and watch the two of you make bedroom eyes at each other.” She strode to the door, leaving awkward silence in her wake. “And boys? Keep it down. I have an appointment in the morning.”

* * *

 

Sherlock turned out all the lights except for the twinkle lights around the room, and the Christmas tree- a festive night light for Rosie- and John got Rosie ready for bed. He laid her in her downstairs crib, tucking her in with her soft toys and doll, and she snuggled beneath her blanket.

When he turned, Sherlock was waiting for him in the shadows of the hallway and he reached for John when he got closer, kissing him. This was what both of them had been thinking of all evening and John slipped his hands behind Sherlock, intent on pulling him closer, but Sherlock was already pressing himself against John, stepping forward until John’s back thudded lightly against the opposite wall. John giggled, finding Sherlock’s hands in the dark and laced their fingers together tightly.

“What do you want, love?”

“You.”


	19. Day 19- Gingerbread

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I didn't post yesterday, but considering this chapter is 6k words, I hope it makes up for that.
> 
> Trigger warnings: mentions of past rape.

In Sherlock’s defense, it’d looked easy on the telly.

He’d got the idea last Christmas, during his and Mrs. Hudson’s epic Christmas special marathon. Bundled up on the sofa, plied with drinks and wholesome food (the first of which he’d had in weeks) Sherlock had watched an episode of a popular baking show in which the contestants created elaborately decorated gingerbread houses, covered in perfect spirals of white icing and candies, with blown sugar windows so fine a person could actually see through them, and competed for top prize. Sherlock had thought then that if he were given the opportunity, he would produce a beautiful gingerbread house. All it took was a knowledge of math, basic measuring and calculations, and a familiarity of baking and confectionary construction. Sherlock felt confident that he had all of those skills and as the contestants were judged on their displays, he assumed that he could have done much better.

Not that he’d ever been given the opportunity. It was a bit sad to bake and decorate a gingerbread house on your own. A doleful task for just one person. And once it was done, who would be there to appreciate your triumph?

Sherlock had vaguely researched recipes and plans when Mrs. Hudson had gone to bed that night- after giving him stern instructions to sleep on her sofa and threatening that she would fix him breakfast the next morning- with no intentions of actually following through with any of them. And he hadn’t.

The idea, however, had stayed with him, tucked away in the back of his mind palace, waiting for just the right opportunity.

* * *

 

It was early morning when Sherlock woke up, so early that, except for the orange streetlight, it was still dark outside and all the noises of the city were sluggish and muted, almost everyone still asleep, with hours yet to rest. The soft sound of raindrops hitting the windows was lulling, especially since it was dark and Sherlock was warm and snug in his bed with John. He stretched, reaching out- and panicked when his questing hand didn’t encounter another warm body.

Where was John? They had fallen asleep together last night and now John was gone? He’d sneaked back to his room and….

Oh. Never mind.

There he was.

At some point in the night, John had rolled away from Sherlock and they were now on opposite sides of the bed, the width of the mattress yawning between them. Sherlock looked longingly at John, so far away, but didn’t move in case he woke him. Daylight was hours away and John was sleeping so soundly. Sherlock didn’t want to disturb him.

Especially after how pleasant last night had been.

Sherlock did roll over, though, careful not to jostle John, and laid back down, bundling the covers all around him, behind his back and up over his shoulders and neck, so there were no drafts. He positioned his head just so on the pillow, getting comfortable, so he could watch John sleep for as long as he wanted. Last night had been so nice…

* * *

 

John gradually worked Sherlock’s pants off his hips, baring him inch by inch and kissing every new bit of skin he revealed, which was both arousing and ticklish. Sherlock was torn between wanting to writhe in pleasure, his cock hardening when he felt John’s tongue at the divot of his hip, or laugh. He watched with anticipation as John slipped the pants down over his cock, wondering if John would kiss him there too, but John skipped over Sherlock’s cock, and moved to his upper thighs. Sherlock whimpered, cock flexing in protest at being ignored, as John continued to kiss his way down his legs. It shouldn’t have been erotic having his knees kissed, first one and then the other, but when he was almost naked and it was John doing the kissing, his fingers wrapping around Sherlock’s leg and teasing at the sensitive skin behind his knees, Sherlock supposed almost anything would be arousing.

John dragged the fabric down past Sherlock’s ankles, over his feet, and finally threw it to the side. Kneeling between Sherlock’s legs, he ran his hands down them again, and this time Sherlock did writhe, pressing his hips into the bed as his spine bowed, cock hard against his stomach. He let his legs spread further and John’s hands were there, returning back up as John laid himself down between Sherlock’s legs, his mouth tickling on Sherlock’s inner thighs before he slid his hands under Sherlock’s arse, lifting, bringing Sherlock to his mouth. Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat, his hands jumping to grab at John, stopping him.

“John-! What’re you doing?”

John nuzzled at the base of Sherlock’s cock, giving Sherlock a mischievous look. “I wanted to suck your cock? Is that all right?”

“Oh. I…well.” Sherlock quit trying to speak and nodded, and John grinned, licking a stripe up his cock. Sherlock cried out, quickly muffling himself with his hand as John licked him again, all the way from the base to the tip, tongue swirling around the head before going back down. Sherlock’s hips jumped on the bed. John’s hands were kneading his arse, trying to direct Sherlock where John wanted him but Sherlock felt awkward, as if he were fighting the directions John was giving him but he didn’t know how to move or where to put his hands- besides the one over his mouth. And what should he do about his legs? When John licked him like that Sherlock wanted to bend his legs, push up into the sensation, but maybe that was bad manners? He moaned, squirming when John sucked the very tip of his cock, pleasure streaking down his legs and causing him to shudder.

John raised his head worriedly, tugging Sherlock’s hand away from his mouth. “Are you all right? I don’t have to do this-“

“No! No, please!” Sherlock quickly rushed to reassure John because if this felt good, he couldn’t imagine what it would feel like to have John’s mouth on him completely. He _had_ to know. “I want you to. I promise. I really do.”

“Okay.” John’s smile slowly spread, but he removed his hands from Sherlock’s arse, rubbing at his thighs instead, which Sherlock hadn’t even known were trembling. “If you’re sure-“

“Yes!”

“Okay. Just relax. Yeah?” He kissed Sherlock’s hip, an innocuous enough area but Sherlock twitched as if he’d struck a nerve. “I won’t do anything that makes you uncomfortable. Maybe…maybe tell me what you like? With this? Not everyone likes teasing when it comes to getting their cock sucked.”

John was going to suck his cock. Sherlock’s legs spread wider around John’s body in blatant invitation. “Do you?”

John grinned. “A bit.”

“I’m sure whatever you do will be…more than adequate.” Sherlock managed, and John’s hands kept moving over his thighs, circling closer and closer to his cock until Sherlock had to close his eyes because it felt as if he would die from the sensation and he rolled his hips, shivering when John’s hands came to rest beneath his testicles. He could feel John’s breath on his cock and he knew his mouth was close and Sherlock realized that no, he didn’t like teasing when it came to this.

“John…”

“Sherlock?” John asked slowly, voice a bit strange. “Um. This isn’t my business, of course…and I guess this is a shit time to ask but…Has anyone ever…done this before? To you?” He demonstrably kissed Sherlock’s cock, tongue a wet swipe to the head that made Sherlock moan in surprise.

“N-no. Never.”

John shook his head, wrapping his hand around the base of Sherlock’s cock. “The fact that no one has ever sucked your cock is a goddamn crime.” He said and Sherlock chuckled, opening his eyes, what a ridiculous statement-

John’s mouth, wet and warm and so so slick, glided down his cock, engulfing him completely and Sherlock went wide-eyed, gasping, staring in absolute shock at the ceiling. His spine bowed, hips jumping upward, pushing further into John’s mouth because it felt so good. John’s hands came up, holding his hips, but he didn’t pull away. Sherlock’s entire body was taut, a live wire with tension coiling tighter as John bobbed his head, sucking back on his cock before going back down, his tongue flicking against the frenulum with every pass. Sherlock had been worried he would be too loud while John did this, but it was so surprising, so indescribably pleasurable, that he couldn’t even moan, barely able to draw enough breath before it was forced from his lungs as John took his cock deeper, and oh god, that was his tongue-

It was quick, sharp pleasure, wholly unlike the experience of either of their hands touching Sherlock’s cock. Better than frotting against John even. John was clearly skilled at this and Sherlock looked down, watching John suck his cock, amazed at the sight. John was touching himself between Sherlock’s legs, one hand flying over his own cock while the other was held at the base of Sherlock’s, keeping him steady while he hollowed his cheeks-

* * *

 

Sherlock blushed, remembering his orgasm and the way John had swallowed around him, encouraging Sherlock to make the most ridiculous sounds and telling him afterwards that it had been “so fucking hot”. Across the bed from him, John took a deep breath, stirring, and Sherlock wondered if he were about to wake up…

But no. John fell back asleep.

That was fine, he could be patient. Sherlock wriggled deeper into the covers, pulling them up almost to his nose but not obstructing his view of John, and waited.

* * *

 

Sherlock was shaky from his orgasm, riding a blend of pleasurable hormones which made him bold enough to ask: “May I…?”

“Anything you want.” John said, and for a while what Sherlock wanted was to push John back against the bed and move over him, kiss him, tasting his own cock and semen on John’s lips and mouth, and then figure out all of the places John enjoyed being kissed, sucked, and laved on. He ignored John’s cock for the time being as he explored his chest and flat nipples, soft stomach and defined hips, his strong, chunky thighs and even his hairy calves. He loved every inch of John.

When Sherlock finally touched John’s cock, John sighed with obvious relief and Sherlock smiled. He stroked John’s cock, watching it get harder, knelt between John’s legs.

“Mm, _fuck_. Sherlock. ‘S _perfect_.” John murmured, and while Sherlock was glad, an idea was taking shape. He thought about it, narrowing his eyes, assessing, watching the muscles in John’s stomach jump, before his eyes lowered to the sight of John’s cock grasped in his hand. It was hard skin, a bead of fluid at the tip and when he rubbed his thumb over it, John gasped and more leaked out.

John wasn’t watching, which gave Sherlock enough courage to lean over and give the head of John’s cock a brief, tentative lick. John hissed, his entire body tensing, and his cock twitched in Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock did it again, then again, working his way down the length of John’s cock until he was licking around the base of it, rolling his tongue in his mouth experimentally. John’s hands were fisted in the sheets and he was rigid with tension.

Sherlock licked once more and then pressed his nose to the base of John’s cock, sniffing. His cock was nicely clean. It smelled like soap and laundry detergent, with an underlying musk that wasn’t unpleasant. Sherlock beamed, rubbing his nose through the wiry hairs at John’s groin happily.

“You smell nice.”

“Thank…” John’s voice was garbled. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Sherlock licked from the base of John’s cock to the head, mimicking what John had done to him earlier and John let his head fall back with a groan.

“Oh, _god_.”

“Are you all right?”

John laughed, high-pitched and slightly hysterical. “Fine.”

John had said he liked to be teased when it came to this, so Sherlock enjoyed himself, licking at his cock, around the head, and watching John’s cock spasm. By the time Sherlock felt brave enough to take John’s cock in his mouth, it was hard and red, leaking fluid steadily, and John’s legs were shaking, the muscles in his thighs vibrating with strain.

Sherlock glanced up at him, but John’s eyes were closed, face set in grim determination, so he didn’t see it when Sherlock closed his lips around the head of his cock, sliding his mouth slowly over the rest, ready to pull away in a split second if he didn’t like it.

“ _Ohhhhhmygod_ -!” John moaned, quickly raising his head to look down at Sherlock, pained, and he shifted on the bed restlessly before letting his head fall back again. “Oh god, _Sherlock_ …”

Sherlock sucked on John’s cock, bobbing his head, and every time he did, John moaned, in a different pitch depending on how hard or soft Sherlock sucked. Sherlock almost laughed around his mouthful of cock because this was fun and he was so relieved. And John didn’t grab at his head and hair, or pump his hips and gag Sherlock on his cock. He kept himself firmly on the bed and only the small, restrained roll of his hips now and again gave away the fact that he was struggling. It was very polite of John and Sherlock appreciated it.

“Oh god….Sherlock…” John warned, voice wavering. “Might want to…I’m gonna come-“

Sherlock hummed and kept going because yes, he wanted to make John come. He readied himself and John cursed as his cock got impossible hard in Sherlock’s mouth-

At the last second, as John’s testicles were drawing up, his entire body rigid, Sherlock giddy at making John come in this way, Sherlock suddenly remembered choking. Not being able to breath. A hand forcing his head down-

He snatched his hand away, jerking his head back at the last second, but not fast enough. Bitter salt, the smell of chlorine, warm come covered his lips. John, caught at the edge of orgasm, not understanding what had happened, moaned in distress, his hand coming up to frantically stroke himself the rest of the way off, sagging with a groan and his hand falling away from his cock.

Sherlock wiped at his lips. He could still taste semen, heavy on his tongue, and the sudden urge to retch was overwhelming. He wouldn’t. He wasn’t choking. He was fine.

He swallowed convulsively, trying to get control of himself because this wasn’t what he wanted to happen. This was John. He hadn’t been forced to do this. He’d wanted to. What he was tasting was John’s come and John had enjoyed what he’d done. John said he loved him.

Sherlock kept swallowing, breathing steadily, but all he could smell was the acrid tang of come. John was going to hug him now. They would go to sleep together. There wasn’t anything to be ashamed of. He shouldn’t be feeling this way. This was wrong. But all Sherlock could taste was come.

He wiped at his chin again because he could feel it dripping down, but there wasn’t anything there. Agitatedly, he ran his hands through his hair, over and over, expecting to find more come there, sticky and matting his curls together. His hands came away clean. He was being ridiculous. John hadn’t come in his hair. He wouldn’t do something like that to him. His hair was clean. There was nothing in it just like there was nothing on his face.

Sherlock’s tongue was coated with come and it was bitter and he wanted to throw up because that was all he could smell and-

John’s hand came into view, wrapping around Sherlock’s wrist and tugging him up from the bed. “Come on, sweetheart.”

He unfolded himself from the bed and timidly followed John, the back of one hand delicately pressed to his mouth. They walked hand-in-hand to the loo, John flipping on the light and making them both squint. Sherlock thought that John knew he was about to throw up and wanted to get him to the loo before he did it in the bedroom. He was grateful for that. Less of a mess to clean up.

“Here.”

Sherlock looked to what John was trying to hand him, staring in confusion: his toothbrush, white paste already on. Sherlock looked at it, then at John who smiled at him, wriggling it until Sherlock took it. John jammed his own toothbrush in his mouth with a cheeky grin, so Sherlock wouldn’t feel awkward and alone, trying to make this as normal as possible. Sherlock knew there was nothing normal about it.

Sherlock hesitantly began brushing his teeth though and clean mint overrode all the other flavors and the panic and shame was brushed away along with it. He looked at himself in the mirror, eyes too wide and his face pale, but John was wedged up beside him, a reassuring presence, and there was nothing on his face and no come in his hair. When he glanced down at John, he winked at him before rinsing his mouth out, not rushing Sherlock to hurry up and finish, and afterwards, John poured them a capful of mouthwash which wasn’t needed anymore, but Sherlock took just the same.

As soon as John had wiped his face off, drying his hands, Sherlock pulled him to him, kissing him, their lips mint flavored and cool. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to tell John what had happened or what had gone through his mind. Anything he could say would just make the situation more tragic.

“Thank you.” He finally whispered and John’s arms came around him, hugging him tightly.

“I love you.” He’d whispered back, cool lips on Sherlock’s chin, their soft cocks touching demurely. The sight of it, the ridiculousness of the moment, caused Sherlock to laugh and John joined him. They’d gone back to bed, holding hands and giggling like children, and Sherlock wrapped himself around John.

* * *

 

Last night had been _very_ nice.

The entire flat was quiet, there was no traffic noises outside, and with the rain providing the perfect soothing white noise, Sherlock turned over on his back, realizing there was something very important that he’d forgotten.

The past few days with John had been hectic and dramatic, and they had pulled Sherlock from his original intent for the month: making happy Christmas memories for Rosie.

He had already done fairly well. The flat was decorated. The advent had been a success. They’d gone sledding and played in the snow. She had gotten her picture taken with Santa at the mall. Sherlock had also, that same day, while they were all out of the flat, built Rosie her own small tent in the living room, covered in see-through purple gauze and strung with tiny star-shaped lights. She could- and did- wear her tiara when she had tea parties in there, closing the curtains and giving herself a cozy nook by the fire.

But what else? What else could Sherlock do to make her memories as happy as possible?

Sherlock, frowned, closing his eyes. What would Rosie like?

The best place to start with ideas was, of course, one’s own memories and experiences and Sherlock was relieved that he had lots of happy Christmas memories of his own. The Christmas tree advent had been one of the happiest, and Rosie had loved that. He thought back, to what he had done and liked. They had always had nice Christmases, before Mycroft went away to school, with lots of music.

He should play more for Rosie. Even if it wasn’t a proper concert, she would remember the sounds of Christmas music and associate that with the happiness Sherlock hoped she’d felt this month. Perhaps they could even see a concert somewhere. Or a ballet. The Nutcracker. Rosie would probably enjoy that.

He opened his phone and began searching, scrolling through page after page of inane ideas of what to do with children in London near the Christmas holidays. Few options were appealing.

Sherlock closed his eyes again. What else had he liked as a child? Warmth, lights, good smells- Mummy in the kitchen. He’d always loved helping his mother in the kitchen, stirring and measuring and having the important job of tasting all the treats and delicacies she would make.

Sherlock opened his eyes. That was an idea.

Rosie loved candies and biscuits and treats. She liked to help in the kitchen too, although there wasn’t much she could do, being little and flammable. But this would be especially for her, so she could be involved from start to finish.

The idea which had lodged in the back of Sherlock’s mind years ago, shoved it’s way to the front, elbowing out all other ideas and Sherlock realized in a flash what they could make:

Gingerbread house.

It was perfect.

They could possibly make something that resembled a castle, with little gingerbread people, and Rosie would love it. Especially if she were allowed to eat it once it was put together. The idea fixed, Sherlock opened his phone and feverishly began searching for recipes and designs. His busy typing was enough to wake John who raised his head, looking for Sherlock, and grunting when he found him.

He rolled himself inelegantly across the mattress to reach him, throwing an arm around Sherlock’s middle when he got there. “What’re you doing?” He slurred, sleepily, and Sherlock snuggled into the embrace, kissing the top of John’s head.

“Go back to sleep.” He said and John nodded before doing as he was told.

Sherlock tapped around on his phone, looking at a few videos and various plans, quick tips and expert opinions. Interviews with past gingerbread house contest winners and their “secrets” to making the best house. By the time it was daylight outside, Sherlock knew all there was to know about gingerbread house creation and was eager to make happy memories with Rosie. John, who was still asleep against his chest, took some convincing to rouse.

“John?”

John’s eyes stayed shut, his arm tightening. “Mmm.”

“John.”

“Sh’lock.” He managed, voice thick and sleepy and eyes still closed. Sherlock felt that he was not trying his best to wake up. This was important.

“John!” Sherlock shook his shoulder roughly. “ _John_!”

John startled, his eyes snapping open in surprise. He looked around, peering at Sherlock in the relative gloom of the bedroom. “Hmm? Whazzat Sh’lock?”

“John. How good are you at construction?”

* * *

 

John watched Sherlock lay out everything they needed for the gingerbread house. He’d never made a gingerbread house before, but he’d seen them in magazines and online, in displays at bakeries and things. There had been a contest at the mall a few years ago, where people entered elaborately built confections and won some sort of cash prize for the best one. John had seen them while he was out shopping. They’d looked hard, incredibly involved, and he was deeply skeptical they could make their own there at the flat. Sherlock was determined though, prattling about happy Christmas memories for Rosie and how baking was instrumental to those recollections because didn’t everyone associate good memories with food?

“Take, for example, our first night together. After the cabbie.” Sherlock clarified, opening and shutting cupboards, searching for the flour, while John looked on. “Do you remember what we had to eat?”

“Angelos.” John felt accomplished but Sherlock gave him a Look.

“Yes, but _what_ at Angelos did we have to eat?”

“Wine.”

“Okay. _And_?”

John wracked his brain. He couldn’t honestly remember. That’d been ages ago. “Look, no offense, but maybe I’m not the type of person who makes food memories.”

“You had the fettuccini.” Sherlock rounded on him. “I had the gnocchi and soup.” He stalked to the table, John watching him come closer dubiously. “We both had wine and by the second glass you had a smear of sauce…here.” He touched to the right of John’s lip. The skin tingled even after Sherlock had pulled away. “And I watched you talk and all the while I wanted to lean over…and lick..it…off...you.”

His voice and the insinuation painted a graphic picture and John couldn’t help but kiss him. Sherlock let him for a bit, before going back to his search for ingredients. John sat for a few more minutes, stupefied in his chair.

“Sherlock?”

“Mm?”

“I think I just created a food memory.”

* * *

 

The rain from earlier that morning had turned to a light snow by midday and John started a fire in the fireplace after they’d all had lunch. Rosie was playing in her tent, her tea set spread around her and a few choice dolls being force fed cake while Sherlock readied everything. John tried once again to deter him.

“You know, they make those clever kits. Down at the shop? We could just get one of those. The biscuits are already made so all you have to do is make the icing and then put it all together. Might be easier.”

“Where would the fun in that be, John?”

John shrugged. He thought the fun might be in avoiding a culinary disaster of epically Christmas proportions, but when Sherlock explained to Rosie what they were doing, she looked excited, and Sherlock just as much so. That meant, according to John, that they were building a fucking gingerbread house come hell or burnt biscuits.

Rosie was stood in a chair close to the table with a makeshift apron knotted around her middle and Sherlock measured out the ingredients for her to put in the mixing bowl. First the butter, which Rosie tossed in the bowl with a triumphant shout. He measured out the cinnamon, but let her do the ginger, cloves and molasses. It took longer than it would have since he let her do it, giving advice and offering gentle assisting as needed, but it was cute to watch Rosie’s determination, face scrunched up with effort, and her pleased grin when she managed to get it right and toss the ingredient in the bowl.

John took photographs when Sherlock wasn’t looking. He sent a few right away to Mrs. Hudson, grinning proudly.

“Good job, Rosie!” John cheered when the baking soda had been thrown in, and Rosie clapped happily. He showed Rosie how to stir it all together using a sturdy spoon and she babbled excitedly when everything thickened together, making a brown sludge.

“Flour.” Sherlock handed Rosie a small cup of it, which she tossed in while John stirred. Sherlock refilled the cup with flour once the other had been incorporated, blending it in slowly to avoid lumps, and then Rosie poured in some water until the dough was at just the right stiffness.

It was put in the fridge to chill while they decided what sort of house they wanted to make, Rosie wandering back into the sitting room and her abandoned tea party.

John was all for building a simple dwelling. He dutifully pulled up a few on his mobile, expecting to argue with Sherlock for the next hour to get him to agree. But the first one he showed to Sherlock, a little house with only four walls and a door and a peaked roof, he said he liked.

John instantly felt bad. He looked from his mobile to Sherlock, trying to decide if Sherlock was disappointed and was just going along with John to keep the peace because he knew John had been opposed to the idea from the beginning. “Really? You don’t want…something more elaborate? I mean, I can find something better.” He said, feeling like he’d trod on Sherlock’s enthusiasm, starting to search for something better for his detective, but Sherlock stopped him.

“No, John, that’s fine. We want something simple since this is for Rosie. I want her to enjoy building the house with us and if we do something extravagant she won’t be able to help. It’s not a time for me to show off.”

“Oh. Okay, well that’s-“

“Of course, I think I will make my own later. I haven’t decided on a final design. Either a castle, since that’s what Rosie likes, or a replica of our flat which would include more intricate detailing. You’ll help me, of course?”

John, thinking of future rowing with Sherlock over minor details, getting angry at each other as they tried to build a gingerbread house, also thought of kissing icing from Sherlock’s lips and the quiet happiness he’d be giving Sherlock if he agreed.

He smiled at Sherlock, who looked suspicious at John’s easy capitulation. “Sounds like a plan.”

* * *

 

They made their templates for the house from butcher paper, Sherlock giving John a scalpel to precisely cut them out while he grabbed the dough from the fridge and called for Rosie. She stuck her hands in it and Sherlock let her knead at it while they finished.

“Your line there isn’t straight.” Sherlock pointed out and John cocked his head to the side, looking at it.

“I think it’s fine.”

“It’s crooked.”

“We can leave it. It won’t effect the house. It’ll be on the roof.”

Sherlock snorted. “I would expect that sort of statement from someone who put that bow in Rosie’s hair.”

Their row paused while each of them looked at the bow in question, a plain gold ribbon which John had been proud of knotting himself that morning. The loops may have been a bit lopsided, he admitted, but only to a very critical eye. Of course, Sherlock had noticed.

“What’s wrong with it?” He asked, and Sherlock raised an eyebrow, as eloquently offensive as anything John knew he was about to say.

“Firstly, that’s not how you tie a bow, John. Obviously. Weren’t you taught that particular skill in primary school? Or watched a simply tutorial on YouTube? How do you even keep your shoes tied every day if that’s the way you think it’s done?”

John clenched his jaw, crossing his arms over his chest, but Sherlock wasn’t done. Clearly, Rosie’s ribbons had been bothering him for a while.

“And if you’re going to dress her in a Christmas jumper, with red and white the predominate colors, gold doesn’t match.”

“Sherlock. It’s on the top of her head. She doesn’t even know it’s there.”

“That’s not the _point_ , John!” Sherlock raged. “You should always make sure the bow matches the rest of her outfit, otherwise why bother putting one in her hair in the first place?”

“All right. Which ribbon should I have used then, smartarse?”

Sherlock didn’t even need to glance at Rosie’s outfit again- a matching red shirt/leggings combo with fancy white snowflakes all over the front, some of which glittered- to answer. “The white one. Or the white one with light blue sparkles.”

“But nothing on her clothing is light blue!” John exploded and Sherlock sighed in annoyance.

“It doesn’t _matter_. The white one has light blue snowflakes on it that glitter. It will match the snowflakes on her shirt.”

“Gold is Christmas colored.” John maintained, glowering slightly at Sherlock who glared right back.

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Not when you dress her in red and white.”

Rosie, unaware she was being critiqued, slapped at the dough, giving her daddies a wide grin. She thought this was better than the slime her fluffy daddy had given her earlier this month. It felt mushy between her fingers and she loved smashing it with her fists, listening to it squish. It also smelled really good.

Really, _really_ good.

Rosie held her hand up to her face, looking at the clumps that were stuck there and slowly, waiting for her daddies to stop her, brought the dough to her mouth. She licked it off one finger, and then the other, eyes widening in excitement when she realized that it tasted delicious, better than it smelled. She scooped more up with her hand and mashed it all into her mouth- John and Sherlock rushed to stop her.

“No, no, no! You can’t eat all of it, love.”

John took her hands out of the dough, wiping them off with a wet cloth. “We’re going to make a house with it.”

Rosie would have preferred to eat it. She didn’t know what her daddies were talking about, and when they wouldn’t let her eat any more of the dough, she crawled under the table and sulked.

John and Sherlock rolled the dough out and Mrs. Hudson provided the gingerbread men biscuit cutters, staying to watch the final construction. Rosie still wouldn’t come out from under the table. Everything was measured and baked, and with the leftover dough they pressed out a pan of ginger people.

Rosie was finally lured from under the table with the promise of a (small) raw one.

* * *

 

“Looks more like a scene from Cluedo than a gingerbread house.”

Sherlock thought John wasn’t being very generous. Their house may be a bit lopsided, and the roof was slowly caving in, and one of the walls had fallen apart and was glued together with liberal amounts of icing, but it wasn’t as bad as all that.

Rosie had done some pretty decorations. The entire surface of the walls and roof were covered with as many pieces of sweets as she’d been able to fit on. Wafers, bright gumdrops, peppermints, candy canes, and brightly colored hard candies were haphazardly sprinkled over the entire house. They were stuck on with white icing which they’d let her squeeze herself, so the house was literally dripping with royal icing.

“It looks pretty. Like snow.” Mrs. Hudson said, and Sherlock thought that was very nice of her to say. Unlike John’s criticisms.

Rosie was enraptured with her creation. Stood in her chair so she could see it better, she jumped up and down, clapping and pointing so her daddies and Aunty Hudson would look at what she’d done. It was so beautiful. It looked like something from a storybook. And daddy said she was allowed to actually eat it later, after dinner.

She was also allowed to make herself as a ginger biscuit person, piping on white eyes and a smiling mouth. Aunty Hudson helped her make the loops for her hair bow, and a design for her dress. She saw her daddy nudge her fluffy daddy, showing him the ginger biscuit he’d just finished piping.

“Sherlock. Look.”

Whatever was on the biscuit made her fluffy daddy blush, murmuring, “ _John_.” and her daddy winked at him as he first licked, then ate his biscuit.

Daddy had the right idea, Rosie decided. The icing was delicious. She picked up the piece of leftover gingerbread and dunked it in the bowl of white icing, bringing it up covered and soaked, and shoved it in her mouth messily.

“Rosie, no!”

* * *

 

They propped their gingerbread men in front of the house, one for each of them. Daddy piped curly hair on her fluffy daddy’s gingerbread man, with a smile, and her fluffy daddy had given daddy’s gingerbread man a scowling face. Rosie’s was in the middle, with a pretty bow and Aunty Hudson had done ruffles for her dress.

* * *

 

That night, Rosie had a tummy ache from eating so many sweets. She cried while John walked her around the sitting room, rubbing her back, trying to help her get some relief. It was so late and they were all tired, but his little girl felt miserable.

“Bring her to bed, John.” Sherlock said sleepily, yawning from the doorway in his pajamas and robe.

“I’ll take her upstairs in a few minutes.” John said quietly, swaying. “I know you’re tired. She can sleep with me tonight.”

Sherlock nodded, but stayed in the doorway, considering. “You could keep her down here tonight. If you want. In my room.”

“You don’t…mind?”

“Of course not.”

* * *

 

Rosie had never been in this bed before. It was so much softer than her bed upstairs, and the covers were plush and velvety. The mattress was springy and she wanted to bounce up and down on it, but she didn’t feel like playing in daddy’s bed that night. Her daddies laid down, and she laid between them, miserable and holding her doll, and both her daddies took turns rubbing her belly until she was almost asleep.

“Goodnight, love.” Daddy kissed her head, then leaned over her and kissed her fluffy daddy too. “And goodnight, my other love.”

“Goodnight, John.”

One of her daddies put their hand on her stomach again, rubbing gently and soothing the hurt. By the time Rosie was almost asleep, her other daddy had taken that hand, and they both rested nicely on her belly, so warm and calming.


	20. Day 20- Scarves

As soon as they stepped out of the cab and onto the curb, they could hear the Christmas music, cheery and upbeat, interspersed with the sounds of noisemakers and crackers going off. It just got louder when they entered the building and walked up the stairs to Molly’s flat. The music was mixed with the raised voices of guests as they talked and laughed, intent on drinking too much and having a good time. Sherlock reluctantly followed John up the stairs, dragging his feet, hands in the pockets of his coat. He would rather be anywhere but here, surrounded by people at a horrendous Christmas party.

If they _had_ to be sociable, he didn’t know why he and John couldn’t have had their own party this year, in their own flat, with only a select handful of people invited whom Sherlock could tolerate. Molly, of course, and Greg. Mrs. Hudson and Rosie. John. An intimate, enjoyable gathering. Not…this.

There was a gaudy wreath hanging on Molly’s door, all tinsel and lights, streaming red and green ribbons and joyfully declaring “Happy Christmas!” in scrolling font. John knocked on the door on the small space left around the wreath, holding their plate of ginger biscuits while Sherlock clutched a bottle of wine and their present to Molly. It was a scarf. Sherlock didn’t even know what it looked like. John had bought it last minute that morning, cursing as he’d rushed out for it because he’d forgot all about Molly’s party that night. Sherlock hadn’t forgot, but he hadn’t mentioned it because he’d hoped John would and then he wouldn’t be forced to go.

No such luck, it would seem.

Rosie had been left with Mrs. Hudson for the evening, with the promise that John and Sherlock would pick her up before midnight. Sherlock clung to the knowledge that they would at least be leaving the party by 11:30. He sighed. That was three long, interminable, tedious hours away. From the sounds of it, most of the people at Molly’s party were already drunk. It was only barely past 7.

“I don’t know why we had to come.” He muttered, as a burst of laughter exploded from behind the door, ominous and screeching.

“Because Molly invited us.” John muttered back, knocking again, louder this time. “She’s been excited about this party for a month. It’s all she’s been talking about and it would’ve been rude not to come. Besides, Molly likes you. Sometimes you have to be sociable to the people you like.”

Sherlock sighed, resigning himself to a horrible evening, just as the door swung open. Bright lights and the noise from the party roared over them in a cacophony of sound that made Sherlock wince, and the press of bodies behind Molly made him feel claustrophobic even standing out in the hallway.

“John! Sherlock!” Molly cried excitedly. Sherlock did a quick once-over. She was wearing a new dress. Red sequins, loud and garish. Matching lipstick. Sparkly tinsel in her hair. There was someone here she was keen on. “I didn’t expect you to actually come!”

John laughed uncomfortably, half glancing at Sherlock in warning before he said. “Well. We wanted to be here.”

It was a blatant lie. Sherlock was surprised John could say it with a straight face. But it pleased Molly who beamed and pulled John into a hug, and then lurched towards Sherlock for the same. His hands were full with wine and a present and with no free hands to hug back with, it was one-sided and awkward. John looked amused when Molly pulled away, blushing and fixing her tinsel.

“I’m so glad you’re here. Everyone’s come!”

She ushered them inside and Sherlock trailed after John glumly as they threaded through the crowd, brushing by groups and dodging elbows as Molly lead them to the kitchen. Sherlock’s eyes zipped around the room, taking in details which were overwhelming with this many people, picking out a few familiar faces, people he knew from Bart’s, but no one he liked. He wanted to take John’s hand because it would be nice to have an anchor in the chaos, but he wasn’t sure if that was allowed. They’d had a few lovely days at the flat together, but did that mean it could spill over into their everyday life? In public? In front of their friends and acquaintances? Maybe John wasn’t comfortable being demonstrative.

Of course, he’d always been affectionate with Mary in public- hand holding, a hand at the small of her back, touching her shoulder, the occasional kiss. But that had been Mary, Sherlock reminded himself. He was different.

Sherlock was so lost in that line of thought- wondering if John would be embarrassed to let everyone know they were together and figuring out how that made him feel- that he was slow to notice that everyone around him, everyone in the entire flat, were wearing red and white Santa hats. On each one there was a card pinned to the top which said things like “Kris Kringle,” “Dasher,” “Dancer”, “Rudolph” “Scrooge”, the Grinch”, “Ghost of Christmas Past”, “Krampus”, “Tiny Tim.” All Christmas characters.

Sherlock was confused, clearly it was some sort of game, but desperately hoped he wouldn’t be forced to wear a hat too.

“This is for you.” John handed Molly the bottle of wine they’d picked up on the way as they crowded into the small kitchen which was already half-full with people snagging drinks.

“Oh, lovely! We’ve already got lots- but the night’s still young. I’m sure we’ll be opening this before the end.” She winked, setting it on a nearby table that held what looked like enough bottles to open up a small bar. “The nibbles are all in the sitting room so people can get at them easier. Drinks in the kitchen, food in the sitting room. Everything’s a bit cramped at the moment.” She said gaily, not concerned. “Oh! And here’s your hats!”

Sherlock blanched. Oh, god.

Molly held out a bright red Santa hat, turned so Sherlock couldn’t see the little card pinned to the top. He tried to glance at it, but she held it to her chest.

“No peeking! We’re all playing along!”

Without waiting for Sherlock to protest, she went up on her toes and tugged it down over his head, smiling, pleased, adjusting the trim so it hung at a dashing angle.

“What’s the game?” John smiled at Sherlock, eyes twinkling with humor when he looked up at Sherlock’s character card. Sherlock assumed it was because he looked ridiculous, and he was sure Molly had given him someone unpleasant. Scrooge, perhaps, or Krampus.

“Well, you wear the hat.” Molly explained. “And they’ve all got these cards on them with names of different Christmas characters. Different themes from different stories. And you have to ask people questions throughout the night for you to try and guess your character’s name, and you do the same to them. It’s a great way to meet new people and everyone’s loving it so far.”

Sherlock doubted that. It sounded like hell.

He also felt Molly was being very unfair as she merely handed John his own hat, allowing him to put it on himself. John could have peeked at the card, but apparently Molly didn’t seem to think he would cheat. Sherlock looked at John’s card, but he didn’t recognize the name.

“Well?” John asked, turning to him. “Who am I?”

“Don’t tell him!” Molly protested. “You have to ask questions and guess. That’s the game!”

“All right. Am I a man or woman?”

Sherlock looked at the card on John’s hat. He honestly didn’t know. The name wasn’t at all familiar to him. He didn’t know from what movie or story it was from, or even if was contemporary or old-fashioned.

“Neither?” He guessed, and Molly tittered.

“He’s male. John’s character is definitely male.”

“Okay. Doesn’t tell me a whole lot.” John laughed good-naturedly and Molly gave his arm a squeeze.

“I’ll leave you to it, then.” Molly tripped away in- Sherlock checked- sparkly red heels, disappearing into the press of bodies. He wondered who she was trying to impress, remembering with some trepidation the horrid Christmas a few years ago when she’d been trying to impress him. Surely she wouldn’t….not again…

“I know I’ll hate asking this,” John said in a low voice, “but were you just…checking Molly out?”

“What? _No_!” Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “Don’t be ridiculous. I was just noticing.” He nodded to where Molly was offering a large woman a glass of wine. “She’s wearing red.”

“So?”

“Everything is red.” He said significantly, but John just shrugged.

“It is a Christmas party.”

“No.” Sherlock grimaced. “Red lipstick. Red dress, very flashy. Red heels. No underpants-“

“ _Sherlock_ -“

“There’s someone here who she’s keen on. She’s hoping the night ends…in a precipitous way.” He ended, expecting John to be impressed, but he was staring at him strangely. “What?”

“How did you know Molly wasn’t wearing underpants?”

“There are no outlines in the dress.” He explained. It was simple. “That dress is skin tight, there’s barely room in it for Molly as it is, and there are no telling lines which would indicate she was wearing pants. Add to that the party and her obvious attempts to impress someone and you can assume she hopes to have it off with-“

“All right, okay. Yeah. I’ve got it.” John said quickly, shaking his head, glancing around to make sure no one had heard them. Sherlock touched his hat self-consciously, pulling it down over his head.

“So? Who am I?” He pointed to the card and John glanced at it, pursing his lips, then down at Sherlock’s face.

“Guess.”

“Oh, lord, John.” Sherlock groaned. “Please. Not you too. Let’s not do this. Just tell me-“

“Guess.” John prompted, and he was teasing Sherlock, smiling, wanting to play, but not making fun of him. Sherlock gave him a dark look, but sighed.

“Male or female?”

“Female.”

He hadn’t expected that. Sherlock scowled. “Movie or book?”

“Book. And movie.”

He rolled his eyes. “Which is it? Book or movie?”

“Both!” John insisted. “But. Okay. Book first. It’s been made into a few movies, cartoons.”

“For children, or adults?”

“Um. More for children? But could be for adults too.”

John was horrible at this game.

So. Christmas themed female character who had originally been in a book but had also been featured in a movie and it was for children, or adults. Sherlock drew a blank.

“I don’t know.” He reached for the hat so he could just read the damn card, but John stopped him.

“No, wait. I mean, you can take it off if you want.” He said, letting go of Sherlock’s wrist. “But, you could leave it on too. The character really suits you.”

Sherlock scoffed because he doubted that, but he left the hat where it was.

“It’s nothing offensive,” John assured him. “I promise. It’s…rather sweet. Actually. Makes me wonder what mine is.”

Sherlock couldn’t help him with that, and even though John asked a few more questions, they got him no where. Sherlock just didn’t know who his character was and finally John gave up.

Molly’s flat was larger than theirs, a big open area with the sitting room, kitchen, and dining room all in one rather large space, with a hallway leading to her bedroom where the coats were piled up on her bed, and another door leading off to the loo. Everyone was packed into the space, a surging sea of Santa hats, and Sherlock followed John through the throng bravely. They made it to the food table near the windows and John placed their ginger biscuits next to an elaborate cheese dish, between an uneaten plate of veggies and beautifully glazed orange scones, which put their shabby little biscuits to shame. Rosie had helped make them, though, so Sherlock felt they were more special than any glazed confection anyone else had made.

“Sherlock!”

Lestrade emerged from the crowd, Santa hat in place (“Ghost of Christmas Present”), raising his glass to them in greeting. Amber liquid sloshed in the tumbler, still half-full but, as Molly had said, the night was still young. He was only on his first glass and his gait was steady, eyes clear.

“Molly said she’d invited you, but I didn’t think you’d actually show up.” He said, but Sherlock didn’t bristle at the insinuation. There was friendliness under Lestrade’s statement, and besides. He hadn’t want to be here so Lestrade was technically correct.

“Well. It would have been rude not to come.” Sherlock repeated what John had said earlier, expecting he would have to parrot it for the rest of the night. It would have been rude not to come. He was here for Molly. He was friends with Molly and he liked her, so he’d come to her tedious party. What fun.

“Been a slow month, always is in December. Haven’t seen the two of you around much.” Lestrade said. “It’s been nice.”

“Ta.” John laughed. “It’s been nice not running all over London.”

John was apparently on top lying form tonight, Sherlock thought. He knew John would rather be running around London, catching criminals, than sitting at the flat, bored, just as much as he did.

“What’s that you’re drinking?” John nodded to Lestrade’s glass as he took a sip, eyeing it speculatively.

“Scotch. Molly said she got it special for tonight.” Lestrade jerked his head in the direction of the kitchen. “She’s got enough to get the whole party sloshed, so there’ll be something the both of you will like.”

“Thanks, but we have to pick Rosie up after this from Mrs. Hudson. Better not.”

This led to Lestrade asking about Rosie and John replied with something boring while Sherlock let his mind wander, looking out over the sea of faces, imagining what he could have been doing back at the flat if he’d been able to stay home. He vaguely heard John and Lestrade talking about how much better Christmas was when you had kids, their traditions, favorite things to do, presents to buy, but Sherlock’s attention was suddenly caught when John said-

“Sherlock’s been incredible with Rosie. He’s really has. He’s made this Christmas great for her. You wouldn’t believe everything he’s done with the flat and presents. We’ve done all sorts of lovely family things.”

“Really?” One of Lestrade’s eyebrows went up. “So.” He began carefully, overly nonchalant, “the two of you…all sorted, then?”

Sherlock cocked his head. What did that mean?

“Yeah. Yeah, we are.” John replied easily, and Lestrade looked from Sherlock to John, his other eyebrow raising.

“Well. That’s great. Really. Congratulations.” He toasted them with his glass, but his eyes were guarded. He looked away, something drawing his attention. “I’ll be back, but listen. John? Find me before you leave, yeah?”

“Yeah, yeah sure.” John agreed, and Lestrade gave them another inscrutable look before melting back into the crowd.

“Dunno what that was about.” John muttered, looking to Sherlock. “Any idea? Hey. You all right?”

Sherlock shook his head, clasping his hands behind his back. No, he wasn’t, but he’d promised John he would stay and at least try and enjoy the party. If John could lie, then so could he.

“Fine.”

* * *

 

They had to mingle, moving between, behind, and around everyone. Sherlock felt stiff and awkward. He wasn’t good at these things, social situations. John was the social one. The one everyone liked. He could move around a room and laugh and grin and know everyone there, friendly and easy. A good bloke. It was all an act. John was a curmudgeon.

Eventually, as the night wore on and more people got drunk, as the music was cranked louder and a space in the middle of the floor was cleared for terrible dancing, and as Sherlock followed John around the room in his apparent quest to talk to everyone, he got bored. Abandoning John to a mind-numbing conversation with a man who claimed to be a surgeon and his much-too-young mistress, Sherlock skirted along the edge of the room, looking for a niche to hide in, passing through the kitchen as quickly as he could. A small group had amassed there, standing guard over the drinks so they themselves could drink as much as possible.

Molly had made a gingerbread house too. Hers stood in the center of her table and was an upright wonder of confectionary, with icy blue treats which all matched in size, shape, and hue, and carefully piped white icing that hung like actual snow. No drips or lopsided walls, no sagging roof or chaotically placed decorations.

Sherlock stared at it and wanted to be home, with Rosie, and their ugly but gorgeous gingerbread house. They’d only eaten the roof yesterday. He had promised Rosie they’d start on the north wall tonight.

Sherlock ducked down the hallway, loud laughter and the pop of crackers following him, and opened the first door he came to. Molly’s bedroom was small. It only had a bed and a nightstand, a mirror across from the bed, and a pile of coats were lumped on top of the duvet. Sherlock closed the door behind him with a relieved sigh, not able to shut out the noise completely, but muffling it significantly.

He leaned against the door, staring across the room into the gloom. He just needed a moment by himself. Everything at the party was too loud, the people and music and noise. It battered at his ears and made him jumpy. Sherlock only liked a handful of people in the entire room anyway. There was no one else he could stand besides Molly or Lestrade or John, and they were busy. He didn’t want to meet anyone else either.

His footsteps were muffled on the carpet and he sank down on the side of the bed, the coats tipping toward him precariously. John would start to wonder where he’d gone soon and Sherlock didn’t want him to think that he’d actually left the party, abandoned him and gone home without him. Even if the idea was incredibly tempting.

“Oh-! Sherlock!”

Sherlock jumped up from the bed, startled at the sudden light and burst of noise as Molly closed the door behind her.

“What’re you doing in here?” She asked, worried, looking around as if she expected to see her room turned upside down.

“I just…needed a moment.” Sherlock said vaguely, not wanting to explain it to Molly. “You don’t mind?”

“Oh. No. Of course not. Feel free. You can come to my room anytime you want. I mean.” Molly stammered. “That’s not what I meant. Not that way. But tonight. For the party. You can stay in here.”

“Thank you.”

They stared at each other, uneasy, Molly fiddling with her tinsel while Sherlock wracked his brain for something to say.

“I liked your gingerbread house.”

Molly looked surprised. “You did?”

“Yes. It’s…impressive.” Sherlock said honestly. It could have won a prize in a contest, even. He told Molly that and she smiled, her regular smile that Sherlock liked to see, happy and sincere, and not Manic Party Hostess.

“Thank you. It took me all weekend to make but.” She shrugged. “But I didn’t have anything else on, you know. I wanted to have something nice for the party. No one else has even mentioned it though.”

“They’re all idiots.” Sherlock said dismissively, then realized that was probably offensive since the people at the party were Molly’s friends. But she laughed and thanked him, so he guessed it was okay.

“John and I built one with Rosie yesterday.”

“Oh? Can I see?” Molly asked and Sherlock pulled up the photos on his mobile. He handed it to Molly and let her scroll through them, exclaiming over the ones with Rosie. Considering they were all of Rosie, Sherlock thought she would have stopped after the first few, but Rosie was adorable, Sherlock reasoned, and that was her due.

“And how is John?” Molly asked, handing the mobile back. Sherlock tucked it back in his pocket.

“He’s…fine.” Sherlock wondered if he should tell Molly that he and John were sleeping together. Probably half the people in the room outside already thought they were. Maybe it wouldn’t be so shocking to her.

Molly’s cat, Toby, ran from under the bed, silver tinsel and a jingle bell draped around his neck, slinking fearfully around the room and Molly exclaimed.

“There you are! I was looking for him. I was afraid he’d gotten out as people were leaving.” She gave Sherlock an apologetic smile and rushed after Toby and Sherlock felt that was the time to rejoin the party.

* * *

 

John smiled at Sherlock when he rejoined him, falling back into conversation with a man Sherlock didn’t know. Sherlock barely listened to John’s conversation, and the man’s reply. He was thinking. The quiet of Molly’s room had given him time to reorient himself and the only thing that could save this party, in his opinion…

He timidly brushed his pinkie against John’s hand. It could have been accidental, or not, depending on how John wanted to read it, but John immediately took Sherlock’s hand, giving it a squeeze, and kept talking, not missing a beat while his thumb skimmed along the back of Sherlock’s hand and warmed him all the way down to his toes.

Sherlock decided he liked Molly’s party after all.

* * *

 

“Belly Limbo!”

The room cheered, everyone raising their glasses tipsily as fake Santa bellies were produced like magic. When there weren’t enough bellies for everyone to go around, cushions from the sofas and chairs were used, stuffed up under shirts. Everyone laughed, hooting and pointing at each other and how ridiculous they looked.

Sherlock hung back, horrified. He may have worn a Santa hat, but his affection for Molly only extended so far.

Molly and another woman held a string of multi-colored Christmas lights a yard or so apart, that people could limbo under, trying not to brush their bizarrely large bellies on the lights, and everyone was drunk enough to think it was a good idea.

Sherlock groaned. “Oh, god. Please don’t tell me we have to participate in that.”

John threw an amused look at him over his shoulder, but he didn’t move to join the throng either. “Might be fun. Bet you can go very, very low.”

Was John flirting with him? Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He watched the line of people staggering into each other, wishing they could leave. They had been here for what felt like hours. He and John could go home and open their own bottle of wine and eat some of their gingerbread house. They also hadn’t had sex in 48 hours, either, and Sherlock was feeling…neglected.

“We could sneak out.” He murmured. “No one would notice us leaving in this…mess.”

“Think it’d be rude to walk out on Molly like that. She was so pleased you were here.”

Sherlock watched a few people fall over, cackling as their bellies fell from under their shirts, then leaned into John, whispering in his ear. “I could offer encouragement.”

“For what?”

“To reinforce the notion of leaving early.”

“Oh, really? What might that be?” John asked casually, eyes on the limbo game. “Christ, it’s like watching a train wreck. Where’d Molly get the idea for these games?”

“That if we leave,” Sherlock wouldn’t be deterred, “my guarantee to ensure that the rest of your evening is much better spent.”

“Mm. I’m sure it would be, love, but we’ll stay just a bit longer. Okay? Just a bit. I don’t want to hurt Molly’s feelings if we leave really early.”

As Molly was going under the line, assisted by Lestrade’s hand on her back, Sherlock didn’t think she would notice if they left. He tried again. “We could preoccupy ourselves much better at the flat in more _advantageous_ ways.”

“I really don’t know what you’re getting at, Sherlock.”

Sherlock licked his lips and tried one more time. He’d never done this before. Maybe he was doing it wrong. He decided the best approach with John was to be direct. He leaned even closer, pressing his body into John’s and whispered in his ear. “I mean that if we leave early, I could suck your cock.”

John turned to stare at him, his jaw clenched and eyes dark. Sherlock’s face felt heated. He wondered if he should have said something different. Or maybe been less direct? More? Although, he didn’t know what would have been more direct than what he’d just said. Maybe John didn’t want Sherlock to be so direct? In public? He’d embarrassed him without even realizing it.

“I thought if I talked…mischievously…I could persuade you to leave with me. Did I do it…wrong?”

John’s ears were red and he shook his head, his jaw still clenched. “No…no, you didn’t do it wrong…” He noticeably swallowed, looking away from Sherlock at the roomful of people. “No…that was…fine.”

He gave Sherlock a strained smile and Sherlock’s heart sank. He’d embarrassed John. And probably, Sherlock though watching Lestrade try and limbo under the string of lights with a large Santa belly strapped to his abdomen, John didn’t even want that sort of thing from him again after the debacle of last time. Sherlock deflated, doing his best not to show it- when John raised his chin, looking around the room, then grabbed Sherlock’s hand and started dragging him toward the door.

“John-?”

“We’re leaving.”

* * *

 

They clattered down the stairs and only reached the first landing before John was spinning Sherlock around and backing him up against the wall, mashing their lips together, completely taking Sherlock by surprise, although he was more than happy to respond.

“You….” John breathed harshly. “I can’t believe you fucking _said_ that.”

“I’m sorry-“

“You bloody well should be.” He kissed Sherlock again, one hand at the back of his head while the other pulled Sherlock closer. Sherlock was confused. If John were angry at him, why was he kissing him? “In front of all those people? Sherlock. You can’t say things like that.”

“I know.” Sherlock contritely admitted around John’s lips. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

“Don’t think anyone saw, thank god. Didn’t think we would make it out of there.”

“I’m sorry.” Sherlock said again, and John stopped kissing him.

“Wait, wait, wait. Why’re you sorry?”

“What I said. It embarrassed you. But I didn’t mean to-”

John laughed, strained. “It embarrassed me, Sherlock, but not because of what you said.” He explained. “It’s because as soon as you said that…listening to you talk like that…I was hard.”

Sherlock blinked and John made a low noise and reached for Sherlock’s hand, which he let him have without hesitation. Sherlock jolted, a shock running through him, when John placed his hand directly on his crotch; his hard cock, to be more specific. Sherlock curved his hand around the bulge, mapping the outline while John’s breathing went ragged and he watched Sherlock touch him.

“You mean…just from what I said…”

“Oh, god, yes.” John kissed him and Sherlock clutched at him, letting John grind against him in the small space. He knocked John’s Santa hat off, yanking at his own, ready to throw it away- but John stopped him.

“Wait, wait. I want to keep those.”

“Why?”

John looked much more embarrassed over wanting the Santa hats for someone who was sporting a very public erection in a building’s stairwell. Sherlock looked at the cards, but the names still didn’t mean anything to him.

“Who were you?”

“Kay.” John reached for the hats. “They’re both from the story, The Snow Queen.”

“Oh. I guess I’m the Snow Queen in this instance?”

John shook his head. “No. You’re Gerda.”

He made it sound significant but when Sherlock still looked blank, he stared down at the hats, rubbing the little cards between his fingers.

“So.” John laughed uncomfortably. “In The Snow Queen, there’s these two children, Kay and Gerda. They play together every day by walking across from one building to the other, and they plant flowers and have this beautiful flower box they made together. They’re inseparable. Until one day, the Snow Queen bewitches Kay, and splinters of her ice get in his eyes, and he doesn’t see the world like he should anymore. It’s all distorted. He destroys everything he and Gerda had built together, the pretty flowerbox, and he tells Gerda that he doesn’t care about her anymore.”

Sherlock was quiet, staring at the hats with John. He didn’t like where this story was heading.

“The Snow Queen takes Kay away from Gerda, to her own kingdom, and makes him forget all about Gerda. Like she never even existed. It seems like he’s lost forever. But. Gerda goes after him. She braves the cold and the ice, and not knowing where to go, and even though she’s heartbroken after all the mean things Kay said to her, she still goes after him to rescue him.” He looked up at Sherlock, smiling wryly. “She manages to find Kay eventually. There’s a lot I’m leaving out. More characters and a few adventures Gerda gets into, when everything seems lost. But, in the end, she finds Kay.”

“And what happens?” Sherlock was worried this didn’t have a happy ending. Some of the old stories didn’t and he wasn’t unaware of the parallels between this story and his and John’s.

“When Gerda sees Kay laying in the ice in the Snow Queen’s palace, she runs to him, and kisses him. And he remembers her and the kiss melts the ice that was in his heart. He cries, and that gets rid of the ice shards in his eyes, and he’s cured. And Gerda forgives him, because she’s gone through all this for him, and she takes him back home with her. And they live happily ever after. Forever.”

Sherlock stared at John, then at the hats he was clutching. Molly had made him Gerda, and John Kay. She’d known what she was doing. Sly minx.

Sherlock was going to buy her a much, much better Christmas present than the scarf.

He took the hats from John and carefully folded them so the cards wouldn’t get crushed, putting them in the large pockets of his coat for preservation. Then, he took John’s hand and smiled. “Let’s go home.”

* * *

 

They made it home and pounded up the stairs, stumbling into their flat in a flurry of lips and teeth and tongues. They shed their coats and scarves in a line to the sofa, shrugging off whatever could be dispatched quickly, and fumbling with the rest as much as they could without breaking their embrace. Sherlock pushed John onto the sofa and immediately knelt between his legs. John leaned forward, dragging Sherlock into another kiss while Sherlock wrestled between them to unfasten John’s trousers. His belt clinked as it came loose, then the button and zipper, and Sherlock placed a hand in the middle of John’s chest and pushed him back onto the sofa.

It looked deliciously obscene, John’s cock sticking out of his trousers while they were both fully dressed, and there was no time for teasing. Neither of them wanted it, and Sherlock went down on John quickly, with what he thought was probably gauche lack of skill but a great deal of enthusiasm. And if the sounds John was making were anything to go by, he was doing a good job.

“God, Sherlock.” John hands hovered over Sherlock’s head before jerking away and John gripped the back of the sofa, his knuckles turning white. It was over quickly, John gasping out a warning and pushing Sherlock’s head away at the same time Sherlock was pulling off his cock, rapidly stroking over John’s cock with his hand, his come shooting between them and John moaning with each burst.

“Oh, fuck.” John said shakily, reaching for Sherlock and he surged up, somehow maneuvering onto John’s lap, his thighs spread to either side of John’s, and John scrabbled between them to undo Sherlock’s trousers as quickly as he could, pulling out his cock and wanking him while pulling Sherlock’s head down into a blistering kiss. When it was over, and Sherlock was slumped over John and they were both covered in come, Sherlock hummed happily.

“I told you I would make it more fun to be back at the flat.”


	21. Day 21- Soup

If the previous night’s party had been a study in horrible social situations, the next night was the complete opposite.

Sherlock only had to go as far as downstairs to spend the evening and it was the quiet, intimate event he’d wanted: only Mrs. Hudson, John, Rosie, and himself in attendance. Everyone he most loved and was comfortable with and no one extra intruding on their happiness. Perfect.

Earlier in the day, Mrs. Hudson made a large pot of vegetable soup and warm, crusty bread with lots of butter. John had ran down to the shop and bought a couple bottles of rich, red wine for the three adults, and fresh milk for Rosie. When John and Sherlock brought Rosie downstairs that evening, Mrs. Hudson’s entire flat smelled like warm soup, freshly baked bread, and mince pies. The Christmas tree lights were on, Christmas music played at a low, considerate volume, and stepping inside her flat was as comfortable as coming home.

Sherlock brought down the remains of their gingerbread house which had gone somewhat stale but were still edible, and his violin, in case anyone requested a live performance. Mrs. Hudson had hinted that she would like to hear a few carols, and since she was hosting their night, and Sherlock wanted to make her happy, he would oblige. John carried down Rosie’s advent tree and an early Christmas present for Mrs. Hudson. Rosie brought herself and her tiara, which she felt was contribution enough.

“Sit, sit!” Mrs. Hudson urged once John and Sherlock had filled their bowls from the pot, motioning them out of the kitchen and into the sitting room. “Go ahead and find seats. I’ll bring the bread and wine, I’ll just be a mo.”

“Maybe we should eat at the table?” John suggested, balancing his own bowl and Rosie’s, glancing at Mrs. Hudson’s old but never shabby, spotless furniture and neat carpets.

“She can get sort of…messy when she eats.”

“What John means to say is that Rosie oftentimes likes to wear her food as an accessory.” Sherlock put in, but Mrs. Hudson waved them away.

“I’m sure she’ll be fine. Just put her at the coffee table and she can use that as a table. I’ll bring the butter too, in case anyone wants some more.”

John gave Sherlock a look as she hurried back into the kitchen. Sherlock shrugged.

“Maybe if we lay down a tarp, first?”

John’s look darkened. “Not helpful. I know she wants tonight to be fun, but Rosie always makes a mess-“

“I’ll feed her.” Sherlock lifted Rosie’s bowl out of John’s hand and seated himself on the sofa. “That way there’ll be no spills, Mrs. Hudson’s furniture remains clean, and Rosie gets fed while we all enjoy our evening. Everyone wins.”

“Everyone except you, because where, in all that, will you get to eat?”

“You can feed me after I get done with Rosie.” Sherlock suggested guilelessly and John was forced to chuckle and kiss the smile from his face.

“Arse.”

They all settled in the sitting room, John and Sherlock on the sofa, Mrs. Hudson adjacent in an armchair, with a platter of bread and a dish of rich butter, along with the wine, on the coffee table between them all for easy access. There was a string of Christmas specials on the telly that night- which had been the reason for their get together- and they lightly argued over which they would watch. In the end, John and Mrs. Hudson won with the Strictly Come Dancing Christmas program. Sherlock hadn’t really minded either way. He thought he would probably dislike anything they chose to watch, but he was happier surrounded by the people he loved, so he couldn’t complain.

Rosie crawled into Sherlock’s lap and, between playing with her doll and watching the pretty people on the telly whirl and twirl in pretty costumes, was induced to eat a few spoonfuls of soup every few minutes. Eventually, she refused to eat another bite and John buttered a piece of bread for her and Sherlock allowed her to hop off his lap and run around the sitting room, smearing butter on her face and trailing crumbs all over the carpets while she pretended to dance.

“You should try out for this show, Sherlock.” Mrs. Hudson suggested, tucking in to her second bowl of soup, dipping buttered pieces of bread in. “You’re twice as good as that man, and much more graceful.”

“I think you have to be a celebrity to be on.” Sherlock thanked John when he handed him his own bowl of soup, still warm, and nodded when John asked if he wanted any wine. John poured them both a glass and topped Mrs. Hudson’s off without being asked.

“You’re a sort of celebrity.” She said. “Everyone knows about you from reading John’s blog.”

“Ta.”

“But you’ve also been in all the papers, on news shows and things. Your name’s not exactly household but there’s quite a few people in the country who know of you. There’s been a few high-profile cases, and you return a few years ago, surprising everyone. Our own national hero.”

Sherlock smirked, and the idea was so preposterous he didn’t even respond.

“You know, it’s not a bad idea.” John said, instantly lowering Sherlock’s opinion of him significantly. “There’s a cash prize for the winner, at the very end. And I think they pay you based on how many weeks you manage to stay in the competition.”

Sherlock took another spoonful of his soup and pretended to ignore them.

“You’d probably like it, too. You like dancing.” John reminded him, as if Sherlock didn’t know what his own interests were.

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

There were plenty of reasons why Sherlock didn’t want to compete in a national dance competition for celebrities and have his every moment recorded for ratings, wear spangled outfits, and be ridiculed on television for the entire world to see. But the main reason was: “I don’t dance in front of people.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. Because I never have.” Sherlock replied, prickly over this line of questioning and wishing they would just drop it. He wasn’t joining a dance competition and he wasn’t going to be dancing anytime soon and the entire thing was pointless.

“That’s true.” Mrs. Hudson said succinctly, nodding at Sherlock over her wine glass. “You didn’t even dance at John’s wedding, did you? And everyone was having such a good time. It was a great DJ. I even danced with Greg, and that nice chap from John’s side. And I will say.” She began grudgingly, her tone turning somewhat stiff. “That I thought you danced magnificently, John, when you and Mary had your turn. You were so attractive and knew all the steps, not wooden or gawky at all. I didn’t know you could waltz.”

John chuckled, glancing at Sherlock who stirred his soup, pushing the vegetables around in his bowl to avoid interaction. “Well. I had a good teacher.”

“It showed. They must have worked very hard with you for you to have ended up as good as you were. No offense, John.” She said quickly. “But I know you always did have two left feet.”

“No, none taken. Yeah. They were…great. Really great.”

Mrs. Hudson hummed and turned back to the telly, smiling as a couple waltzed their way through “Blue Christmas,” while Sherlock ate his soup just to have something to do with his hands, and John watched him speculatively.

* * *

 

They changed the channel from dancing to the Doctor Who Christmas show, and once all the butter had been cleaned off Rosie’s face and out of her hair, John and Sherlock gave Mrs. Hudson her early Christmas present.

“Oh, it’s lovely!” She exclaimed, pulling the pale pink, cashmere robe from the tissue paper, running her fingers over it with delight. It was fancier than what she usually wore- plain but sturdy flannel-and she instantly thought of how stylish she would look, asking Mrs. Turner over for brunch while wearing her cashmere robe, or the morning after a tryst with her man, looking divine. “You really shouldn’t have,” She said, in a voice that plainly said _yes they should have,_ “And oh! Matching slippers too!”

“It’s the least we could do, after everything you’ve done for us.” John was happy she liked the gift. He hadn’t known what Sherlock had picked out until it was already purchased and he’d been skeptical of the robe. Buying luxurious nightclothes for their landlady who was aged over 60, even if they were as close as family, didn’t seem…right somehow. But Sherlock had thought it was perfect.

Sherlock, on the pretense of taking his soup bowl to the kitchen, walked past Mrs. Hudson so he could press a quick kiss to her forehead. “Happy Christmas.”

Not letting him away that easy, she grabbed his hand, pulling him back to her, still holding her robe to her chest as a treasured possession.

“Thank you, Sherlock.”

“It was no trouble.” He murmured, but bent down and hugged Mrs. Hudson, blushing when she patted him on the cheek as he stood.

Excited about the tearing of wrapping paper and the sight of a present, Rosie raced to her advent, pointing at it until her fluffy daddy came over. She was allowed to open another door, this one revealing a small coloring book and a package of eight primary color crayons. This present broke from the others because it wasn’t princess-themed, but the pages were covered with pretty Christmas scenes, trees and sleighs, bells and mistletoe, a fireplace with children playing in front of it, assorted Christmas baubles and tinsel, a spill of toys. Rosie flipped through it, turning the pages as warily, interested but suspicious. John sat in the floor with her at the coffee table and opened the box of crayons.

“Try it.” He spread them out for her to select from and, after careful consideration, Rosie chose the red, because that was what she had seen the most of that evening- all of Mrs. Hudson’s decorations matching- and swiped it across a drawing of a Christmas wreath. The splash of color on the plain paper was pretty. She laughed, bouncing a little, pleased and excited with her present.

Soon, the wreath was all eight colors- brown, black, orange, purple, yellow, red, blue, and green- a rainbow of festivity which she proudly showed around the room, garnering her due of praise, before setting to work on another masterpiece. John stayed on the floor, supervising Rosie to make sure she didn’t color on the wood of the table, and leaned back against Sherlock’s legs, needing a rest for his back and feeling old because of it. He felt Sherlock’s fingers sneak into his hair, sliding from the base of his neck to his crown, through the short strands of his hair in an unhurried caress that he repeated, time and again. The same pattern, over and over. It was lulling, and the quiet, unobtrusive intimacy of it was better than anything more overtly sexual he could have done.

He had this now, John realized, in a flash of surprise. He had Sherlock, as his own, and they were together, familiar and close enough that Sherlock felt comfortable reaching out for affection like this, but giving it as well as receiving with so much enthusiasm. He’d felt Sherlock’s hand last night at Molly’s party, brushing against his own. John had held off holding his hand in case that wasn’t something Sherlock would have wanted. He was always so irritable in public. But at the barest suggestion, John had gladly taken his hand and Sherlock had held it the rest of the night, quietly beaming as they wandered around the room.

John reached back, over his shoulder and it was a little awkward, but Sherlock slid his own hand into John’s, a brief grasp shared between them that John hoped Sherlock knew meant: I love you.

As Sherlock resumed petting his hair, and John’s eyes closed in pleasure, he thought Sherlock knew.

* * *

 

By the end of the night, when the last special had gone off and it was time for the late news, Mrs. Hudson switched the telly off and asked Sherlock to play a few songs on his violin. After a quick back and forth as to what she wanted to hear, and him graciously declining the ones he hated, he set to tuning his violin even though they all knew he kept it in excellent condition. Fiddling with the strings and adjusting his bow while Mrs. Hudson settled back in her armchair with a last glass of wine, her eyes heavy.

They were all tired. It was late. Rosie was already asleep in John’s lap, her head pillowed on his chest. Her coloring book was all done, each page messily filled in with every color she’d had, a work of art unto itself. She’d had a wonderful time completing it.

The first strains of “O Holy Night” began, slow and soft so as not to wake Rosie, and a hush fell over the entire flat. Sherlock swayed as he played, his eyes closed, face peaceful, and Mrs. Hudson smiled, closing her own eyes to listen better. John couldn’t look away from Sherlock.

As one song blended into another, “God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman” measured and each note drawn out into something vibrating and beautiful, there was suddenly something melancholy about the atmosphere. Nothing had changed. The Christmas lights still shone, multicolored and bright, and the ornaments twinkled as they gently spun. Snow could be seen on the ground outside the windows, and the smell of good food and the immediate remembrance of a good evening spent with family was still there. But so was a percolating sadness that John couldn’t identify.

He watched Sherlock move, elegant and refined, and remembered past Christmases that hadn’t been this nice. His last with Mary, for example, which hadn’t been happy at all. They had gone everywhere, to all the parties Mary had been invited to, and seen all of Mary’s friends, played at being the happy, loving couple. John had miserable and had barely been able to stand her. Sherlock hadn’t been there. Mary had told John he didn’t want to be with them. She had told Sherlock the same thing.

“Deck the Halls”, played at the tempo Sherlock was using, sounded mournful, as if the halls would be decked in black for a funeral.

Christmases without Sherlock, thinking he was dead. That first lonely Christmas by himself when John’s only nod to the season had been a bottle of scotch and passing out before midnight. The next had been his first with Mary. Fine. Not so bad. Terrible because Sherlock was still dead.

The best Christmases John had ever spent, when he had been happy and strangely free, were those few he’d spent with Sherlock in the years Before. Even with the crimes and the criminals and Mycroft’s texts, and even with Sherlock’s moods and his cryptic remarks and his sarcasm. All of that had just made it better for John. It was what he had desperately missed when Sherlock was gone, and what he thought he would never have again.

Sherlock opened his eyes, looking straight at John, their eyes meeting briefly before he swayed away. It was enough to make John’s heart skip a beat. What he had with Sherlock now was tentative and new. It felt fragile, as if the slightest bit of stress could easily break it and damage everything they had. What he had with Sherlock was tentative, and new. It felt fragile, as if any stress on it could easily break it and damage everything they had.

But that wasn’t right, John thought as Sherlock, as if sensing John’s bleak mood, began a quiet but upbeat version of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.” Just to make John feel better. This wouldn’t break, what he and Sherlock had. Not this time. They had been through too much pain and heartache and sadness to let what they had wither. John would fight and die for it before letting that happen. He wasn’t leaving Sherlock again.

Never again, John vowed as Sherlock looked at him again, giving him a grateful look. Never again.

* * *

 

They said goodnight to Mrs. Hudson and John carried Rosie up the stairs while Sherlock walked behind, carrying the advent and a large container of leftover soup Mrs. Hudson had insisted they take with them. They left all the lights off in the flat when they arrived, except for the Christmas lights. The melancholy gloom had followed them upstairs and John didn’t know how to fully shake it.

They didn’t speak as John changed Rosie’s nappy and put her in fresh pajamas, settling her in the downstairs crib with all her dolls and stoking the fire so it would keep warm the whole night. Sherlock did his ablutions in the loo, and waited in bed while John did the same. When John slid beneath the sheets, he could feel Sherlock’s body heat, waiting for him promisingly, and he moved closer to him just as Sherlock did the same, both needing the intimacy the other could offer.

Everything was hushed, quiet and languid, and they didn’t need to speak because they had each other. Nothing more needed to be said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Christmas can be hectic with all of my family, so I probably won't be posting again until Tuesday 26th.
> 
> Merry Christmas to everyone!!!


	22. Day 22- Huddle For Warmth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter happened. I basically cried my way through it but I feel better afterwards. Sherlock and John discuss what happened to Sherlock in Serbia. There is nothing overtly explicit but a lot is implied. If discussions of rape would be triggering for you, please skip this chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter happened. I basically cried my way through it but I feel better afterwards. Sherlock and John discuss what happened to Sherlock in Serbia and there is nothing overtly explicit but a lot is implied. If discussions of rape would be triggering for you, please skip this chapter.

Sherlock woke in the middle of the night to darkness and a nagging feeling that something was wrong. He blinked to clear his eyes and he could see, by the faint light of the streetlamp outside, the silhouette of John. He was sitting up in bed, knees pulled to his chest and shoulders hunched, staring blankly at the wall opposite. His face was in profile and with the low light it was hard for Sherlock to discern what his expression was, but he felt, if John was silently awake at 4 in the morning, it was not for a good reason.

“John?” Sherlock murmured his name quietly, so as not to scare him, and John took a deep breath as if coming out of a trance. His face was in shadows when he turned his head, eyes hidden in the dark.

“Go back to sleep. Everything’s fine.”

Sherlock’s sense of wrongness doubled. John sounded despondent, voice low and dragging over every syllable, as if it were hard for him to get the words out. Sherlock had known John wasn’t feeling well earlier in the evening, while they were downstairs with Mrs. Hudson, and he hadn’t been able to deduce why. They’d had a nice evening, with pleasant company, and John had laughed and ate and drank and taken care of Rosie. There should have been nothing to bring him down.

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock raised up, all drowsiness gone and his body on full alert. What was bothering John? Bad memories? Nightmares? Flashback from Afghanistan?

“Nothing. Really.”

John was lying.

Was he realizing this wasn’t what he wanted? Had second thoughts about being in a relationship with Sherlock crept into his mind as he came to understand what a romance would mean with him, and how their lives together would play out?

Mary, for all her faults, had been a learned socialite. Easy and friendly, she could ingratiate herself into any group and be an instant success. Sherlock could never do that. Oh, he supposed for short stretches of time he could sham it and be affable, but it would wear on him. He couldn’t sustain it for long. Perhaps, he thought as he looked at John’s profile again, he should have tried harder at Molly’s Christmas party, and he should have exerted himself to be more talkative last night with Mrs. Hudson. Silent enjoyment wasn’t fun in a group setting and Sherlock should have been more expressive with his happiness. Maybe he had tried too hard with Rosie perhaps? It was one thing to have a romantic/sexual relationship with Sherlock, it was another to raise a child with him. That could bother John because he wanted to be a good father, and he tried so hard.

Sherlock had thought they were fine last night when they went to bed. They had clung to each other, settling their bodies together as if they’d been doing so for years, and the familiarity and comfort had been incredibly pleasant. That was why it was so jarring to wake up in the middle of the night and find John…like this. Sherlock’s mind leapt straight to the worst possible thing.

He could imagine that John didn’t know how to tell Sherlock, after his heartfelt declaration of a few days ago, that he no longer wanted what he said he had. It was keeping John awake because he felt guilty that he’d raised Sherlock’s expectations, when really, Sherlock thought, he shouldn’t have anticipated such things from John. He knew he was hard to get along with, difficult to live with as John had told him lots of times in the past. Prickly at the best of times, and John needed someone better than that. Sherlock should have known he wasn’t good enough.

“John?” Sherlock prodded, wanting to reach out but not knowing if his touch would be welcome at the moment. John seemed so distant and closed off. From the corner of Sherlock’s eyes, he caught sight of the two Santa hats from Molly’s party, glowing in the dark from their own vibrancy. Their character name cards were still attached to them and John had put them there the other night, in pride of place where they could be easily seen. It had felt like a dedication, with a deep meaning that Sherlock had still been trying to work out.

Now, the sight of the hats confused him even more and he turned so he couldn’t see them anymore and focused on John.

John sighed, stretching his legs out on the bed, relaxing his posture and turning to Sherlock. He was worried. He toyed with the duvet between his fingers, scrunching the cloth and spreading it rapidly, lips pursed as he thought of what to say. Sherlock braced himself for the worst.

“It’s really nothing Sherlock. I didn’t mean to wake you. I’m being silly.”

Sherlock watched John fidget a bit more, but didn’t respond. He waited for John to continue, because he knew there was something he wanted to say. He wondered how much it would hurt, and if he would be able to pretend that it didn’t.

After the last few days with John, experiencing the intimacy that could be his, Sherlock didn’t think he’d be able to mask the pain completely. He would try, though.

“I guess I’m just having a bit of a wobbly.” John chuckled sheepishly and another piece of the puzzle slotted into place: John was embarrassed of whatever it was he was thinking, and what he wanted to say. That did not make Sherlock feel better. There were few things John was truly embarrassed about unless it had to do with feelings and the expression of them. Although, Sherlock amended as he waited, John had been doing very well lately.

“Last night was so nice.” John began again, quiet in the darkness and Sherlock listened with bated breath. “I know we went to Molly’s party the other night and it was all right. Don’t tell her I said that, by the way. We’ll say we enjoyed it when she asks, don’t want to hurt her feelings. But. Tonight was so much better. Just us- me and you and Rosie and Mrs. Hudson. It’s what felt like…like family.” John’s hand snaked across the bed and took Sherlock’s, turning it over and tracing the lines on his palm. It tickled and under other circumstances, Sherlock would have found it rather erotic. Now, it only set him more on edge.

“And I’ve been thinking…” John’s thumb circled around and around the center of Sherlock’s palm as if it were a worry stone. “I’ve been thinking that there were so many years I didn’t have this with you. And there were so many years that I didn’t even know what I was missing. I thought I was as happy as I was ever going to be, and looking back on it…I was so fucking miserable.”

_John._

Sherlock closed his hand, trapping John’s fingers in his own, and could feel him shaking.

“And I thought…I could have gone on missing all of this with you, and not even _knowing_.” John’s voice was grief-stricken, pain so raw it tore at Sherlock too. “I wouldn’t have even known how incredible this could be, and how happy it was possible to feel. And I could have destroyed all of that. Do you know what I mean? This,” John cupped Sherlock’s cheek and he tilted his head up in an invitation which John did not take, instead smiling sadly. “ _This_ , Sherlock. I never would have known I could have this with you because I wrecked it beyond saving and I wouldn’t have even…I would have cared because you’ve always been important to me. I would have cared. But I wouldn’t have known the full extent of what I’d done. Just exactly what it was I had ruined. Because I never would have dreamed it could be like this.”

Sherlock didn’t know how to respond. His heart was fluttering beneath his ribs and he wondered if he were having a heart attack and if John could feel his erratic pulse beneath his fingertips at his wrist. John wouldn’t let Sherlock have a heart attack if he knew. He’d say something. He’d try and save Sherlock if he were having one.

“I wouldn’t have known either.” He said. He would never have been able to deduce or predict or even imagine what he could have with John.

John’s eyes went soft, the hand on Sherlock’s cheek sliding to his nape, and he pecked Sherlock on the lips, a simple little kiss Sherlock felt through his whole body.

“I love you.” John whispered, and Sherlock didn’t think a confession of love should sound so heartbreaking. “And I don’t deserve to have you, Sherlock, but I swear to God, I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to.”

“John.” Sherlock wanted to say that he wasn’t worth everything John thought he was. He wasn’t special. He would drive John mad with his deductions and his sarcasm, his bad moods and his eccentricities. He was a drug addict who took cases to keep himself from getting high. He had killed someone, at point blank range, with a gun. On purpose. He was not a good person.

None of that came out of his mouth.

Sherlock moved closer, John’s hand falling away as he invaded his personal space until he could whisper his confession in John’s ear, the best way he knew how.

“You’re all I’ve ever wanted, John Watson.”

John let out a breath that sounded more like a sob, but then Sherlock was kissing him because he couldn’t stand the idea of John crying, not over him. It was slow and careful, and he held onto John’s shoulders as John tipped him backwards, his back hitting the cool of the pillow shocking against his skin. John’s grief was easy to turn into sexual arousal, as most of his emotions were, and Sherlock’s relief that John still wanted him, combined with the knowledge John loved him, sent him skidding along the same path. It wasn’t long before Sherlock was hooking his fingers in the waistband of John’s pants and working them off his hips, letting John do the same to him, lifting his hips so they could slide off and over his arse, because he wanted to be as close as possible to John. Skin against skin.

Sherlock rolled onto his back, pulling at John’s shoulders, silently urging him, and John followed him over, not breaking their kiss. He took most of his weight on his forearms, settling between Sherlock’s legs and Sherlock wrapped them around John’s hips, his knees skimming along John’s sides. John made a muffled sound against his lips, hips moving, and Sherlock tried to thrust with him, but pressed together as close as they were it was more of a grind, moving in tandem, their kiss turning heated with more purpose.

John’s cock slid along Sherlock’s, hard, and Sherlock wished there was more slickness between them to ease the way, their skin catching and dragging on each other, creating friction that was just this side of uncomfortable but he didn’t want to stop. He never wanted to stop because he loved this, John between his legs, moving over him while they kissed and Sherlock twined his arms around John’s shoulders, moaning.

A cold draft chilled his skin, the duvet slipping down their bodies, and Sherlock impulsively pulled it over their heads, sealing them inside a dark cocoon. John giggled against his lips as if they were naughty children hiding and he raised above Sherlock to get more leverage, thrusting harder. Sherlock cried out softly, throwing his head back, digging his fingers into John’s shoulders.

He gasped, apologizing. “Sorry- I’m sorry-“

“No, don’t be. I like it.” John panted, dipping back down to kiss beneath Sherlock’s chin, his hips moving in a slow undulation. “Scratch me all you want. I love it.”

“ _Oh_ …” Sherlock’s stomach twisted in arousal and he tentatively did it again, dragging his fingernails over John’s shoulders, feeling John’s cock jerk against him when he did. John hissed, kissing him hard, hips pumping when Sherlock did it again, across his back as he felt his own cock begin to leak, drops of precome easing their way.

“God, Sherlock.” John dropped to his forearms again, grinding against him and Sherlock groaned, pulling his legs up higher to give John better access.

“John!”

If this felt so good, Sherlock wondered what actual sex with John would feel like and he allowed himself to think of it, John gentle and rocking inside him while he kissed him and whispered how amazing Sherlock was and how good he felt, bringing them both to orgasm-

Sherlock’s fingernails scored down John’s back, the sharp surge of his cock as it hardened making him moan, and John cried out against Sherlock’s lips, raising up, thrusting harder. Sherlock moaned again, encouraging him, and John’s cock slipped down, past Sherlock’s testicles and slid, caught briefly against the rim of Sherlock’s arse, and John cursed, reaching down and fumbling, trying to right himself-

“No!” Sherlock pushed at John’s shoulders, panicked, struggling to make him move and John quickly pulled away, flinging the duvet off them, going to his hands and knees above Sherlock.

“What? What is it? What’s wrong?”

Sherlock felt like an idiot. Frigid air hit him full in the face, freezing him as he gasped for breath and a cold sweat broke out over his skin.

“Oh.” Sherlock covered his mouth with his hands, afraid he was going to be sick. He couldn’t look at John who sounded so worried, asking Sherlock what was wrong, if he was okay.

“Sherlock? Sherlock? What happened? What did I do?”

“Nothing.” Sherlock managed to say. “You didn’t do...nothing. I-“

He pressed harder on his mouth, his hands shaking, trying to hold it all in.

_-someone pushing inside him, hard and careless and he couldn’t get away. Being split apart and trying not to make a sound. There had been no preparation, only the barest suggestion of lubrication used to ease the way-_

A sob built in Sherlock’s chest. He kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling because he knew if he looked at John, he was going to cry.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice was so soft and gentle but Sherlock didn’t react because he had thought…he had thought John would…

The sob erupted from behind his hands. Sherlock froze, distressed, locking every muscle in his chest as hard as he could, holding his breath to keep it from happening again.

“Oh, _Sherlock_ …” John sounded heartbroken and Sherlock had done that and he felt like he was breaking apart, ruining everything. He yanked his hands away from his mouth, trying to say everything in a quick rush and reassure John.

“I’m sorry, John. I didn’t-“ He stopped, breaking off when his throat closed up and he had to work to clear it. “I thought. But I shouldn’t have thought that. I know that. I know, John. You wouldn’t do that unless you knew…unless you knew I wanted it and…and not without lots of…”

_-so much pain and he felt like he was bleeding. When one finished, another took their place and eventually his muscles were exhausted and he couldn’t fight anymore. The muscles in his legs shook from exhaustion and all he could do was hold on and take it-_

Sherlock’s eyes inescapably dropped from the ceiling to John’s face, dreading what he would find there. He wasn’t expecting what he saw and something he hadn’t even known was in his chest shattered and broke, splinters stabbing him until his eyes filled with tears.

“John…” He whispered, voice squeezed down, uncertainly reaching for him and John immediately pulled Sherlock into his arms, wrapping him up against his chest and squeezing him until it was hard to breathe and in Sherlock’s opinion, it still wasn’t enough. It felt as if the only thing holding him together at that moment were John’s arms, and he wasn’t crying exactly but it was so hard to breathe. He was gasping harshly, his lungs not working properly, and he felt as if he were dying. He clung to John with everything he had, closing his eyes and trying not shake himself loose from John’s embrace.

When the storm was finally over and Sherlock calmed, he realized John was rocking them, gently moving them unhurriedly in a peaceful back and forth. Sherlock let himself be held a while longer, until his breathing returned to normal and the wet tracks on his face dried, and he tried to figure out what had happened. And why.

He felt utterly broken, cleared out and empty. Hollow. He had thought he would be fine, and he had thought just being with John would be enough. It wasn’t. And in that moment Sherlock let himself mourn for everything he and John could have had, and what he didn’t think they ever would.

He moved and John let him go. Sherlock pulled himself up and away from John, running a hand over his face, pushing his hair back from his forehead where it had stuck with sweat. He glanced up at John who was watching him closely, still in shadows but Sherlock could feel the weight of his gaze on him. He didn’t know what to say. There was so much. Where could he start?

He reached for John again, wrapping his hand around the back of John’s neck and drawing him to him, resting his forehead against John’s so he could be close but nothing else was touching. He didn’t know how he would react if they did.

“I want you.” He confessed, agonized by the truth of it. He wanted John. He wanted intimacy with John and he wanted to do everything possible sexually with him. But…

“I will never hurt you, Sherlock. Ever.” John whispered back. He closed his hand around Sherlock’s and Sherlock gripped it as hard as he could. “But…someone did. I know that. Someone hurt you, badly I think, and I don’t think we’ve been doing the best thing ignoring it like we have and carrying on like nothing is wrong…Even if you want to think that it is.”

When Sherlock didn’t respond, John continued cautiously, knowing he was treading on unstable ground.

“Maybe it would help…if you told me. What happened. And you don’t have to, Sherlock. You don’t. I won’t make you. But…I think it would help. Then I would know and we could figure out your triggers and discuss…what we could do. To help you. And how to move forward together.”

Sherlock closed his eyes. He didn’t want to tell John, but he could see the logic in it. It made sense. If they were going to be together, and further their relationship, he needed to tell John something of what had happened. So he would know the basics, at least. Otherwise, he would keep having these episodes and he would keep hurting both himself and John, and it would drive them apart.

“Okay.” Sherlock whispered and he instantly felt the tension in the room ratchet higher. It was so quiet he could hear John breathing and Rosie’s quiet breaths echoing faintly from the baby monitor. He licked his lips nervously, tucking his chin in and drawing in on himself, taking himself away from John, withdrawing his whole body until they were no longer touching at any point. John let him move away, making no move to keep him close, until there was more than a foot of space between them on the mattress.

Sherlock could feel his own breathing getting faster. How could he even start? How could he say it? He could pretend it happened to someone else, Sherlock decided. Not to himself but a victim at a crime scene. He could do that. This was a regular crime scene Lestrade had called him in on, and he was describing to John what had happened so John could write it all down for later and help him with his deductions. It was just like normal.

Except it wasn’t.

“There were multiple forms of sexual assault which were perpetuated. Oral penetration occurred on several instances, resulting in mild asphyxiation.” Sherlock said in a quick rush, and he could still remember choking, not being able to breath. He shook his head, dismissing the thoughts. “Of course, these were crude men, accustomed to violence, and so the degradation was not complete until there was semen in the hair, as well as the face.”

He rattled off what had happened and in front of him John had gone totally still. He couldn’t even hear him breathing anymore.

“Anal penetration also ensued, over the course of a few days, from multiple perpetrators, and as this was another form of torture to extract information they did not bother overmuch with the care of their victim.” Sherlock swallowed, took a deep, bracing breath. “Finally, manual stimulation was used to… "

He faltered. He knew why it had happened and that it was purely a physical reaction, nothing more and nothing less. A crass way of humiliating him. It shouldn’t have worked. It had.

“Manual stimulation was used on several occasions to achieve an obvious arousal in their victim, an erection, and then of course various verbal assaults were used to take advantage of the effect they had had. And…” Sherlock paused, taking another deep, steadying breath, relieved it was over. “That’s the whole of it.”

Now John knew. They could work through it like John said they would. They would be better after this, closer.

Or John would be disgusted and turn away from him, unable to stand being with him after he knew what disgusting things a group of men had done to him-

Sherlock startled at the unexpected touch of John’s hand on his face, rubbing over his cheekbone with aching gentleness, and his eyes snapped open to stare in surprise. John was still more than a foot away from him, keeping to his side of the bed and the invisible barrier Sherlock had set between them, but he had reached out to him, unable to keep away.

“I’m so sorry, Sherlock.” He withdrew his hand but Sherlock grasped at it, bringing it back up to his face and placing it where it had been.

“What happens now?” He asked, trembling with nervousness. He had to know.

“What do you want to happen?”

“I _want_ you, John.” Sherlock repeated. “I do.”

“Okay.” John nodded slowly, and he moved closer to Sherlock, until their knees were touching, his hand still caressing Sherlock’s face. Sherlock appreciated the contact, now that his confession was done, because it was physical proof John still wanted him. John’s other hand rested warmly on Sherlock’s knee. “What exactly do you want?”

“I…” Sherlock shook his head, thoughts disorganized. “I don’t know where to…begin…”

“Can I maybe start?” John asked and Sherlock nodded, silently thanking him for making this easier. “Okay. Let me say this first: we won’t ever do anything you’re not comfortable with, or something you don’t want. Ever. And I don’t want you to feel pressured to do something just to please me, or because you think it will make me happy, or because you think I want it.” John shook his head. “I don’t want that for us.”

“I don’t either.” Sherlock gripped John’s hand on his knee tightly, and John turned it over so they could twine their fingers together.

“So, keeping that in mind, what have we done that you were comfortable with?”

Sherlock tucked his chin in, embarrassed. He was sure John could feel his cheeks heating beneath his palm. “The kissing. I love kissing you. And…when we…together…” He motioned at their crotches. They were still naked, sheets pooled in their laps, but John knew what he meant.

“Okay. Anything else?”

“I like sucking your cock.” Sherlock said brashly, and John laughed startled. Sherlock laughed too, but it was choked and they both stopped. “It’s just…there are certain scents. And I don’t want…it…on my face. Or mouth. Or hair.”

“Okay.” There was no judgment, just acceptance. It was almost too good to be true.

“And that’s…okay with you?” Sherlock asked doubtfully.

“More than okay. Sherlock, if we never did anything sexual again, I would still want to be with you, be close to you and kiss you as much as I could every single day. If that was all you wanted, I would be fine.”

Sherlock nodded, eyes dropping to stare at their hands. “And what we were doing earlier tonight, it was great. More than great. It was just when that happened, your cock…there…without warning…”

“I understand.” John squeezed Sherlock’s hand apologetically. “I’m sorry I did that, Sherlock-“

“It was an accident.” Sherlock dismissed his apology. “But it proves that you were right. We should have discussed this sooner.”

Silence fell between them, unasked questions hovering in the air between them, and Sherlock didn’t know how to address them because, in all honesty, he didn’t know if he had answers.

John bit his lip, working up his nerve to finally say: “Look…Sherlock. Some couples don’t ever have sex that way. Anal penetration. We could be like those other couples. That’s completely fine with me, and it’s normal to not want that." John shrugged. "Lots of men don’t.”

Sherlock knew that and John was right. But…

“I don’t want that to be the only experience I ever have.” He whispered quietly, his words barely above a breath and John had to lean in close to hear him. “It’s irrational to feel that way. I know it makes no logical sense because a person is not defined by what was forced upon them and you choose what you allow to change you. I’ve told that to clients before. It’s happened. It’s in the past. You should work through it and not try to change anything. But…I don’t want what happened in Serbia to be the only experience I have... I want what I imagined could happen.”

“What was that, love?”

Sherlock shook his head. He didn’t want to say it out loud because it was disgustingly sentimental and naïvely romantic. He’d wanted to be made love to, slowly and carefully, being pulled apart and teased with pleasure that was sweet and wonderful. He had thought, years ago, that he and John could have that. Not that he’d waited for John, or preserved himself with that in mind, but he had just thought it could happen. If they ever got together.

He couldn’t say that to John.

But it was easy to summarize in a word, though.

“ _You_.” Sherlock merely said, knowing that John would understand, and he did. John sighed, smiling sadly, and they met in the middle of the invisible barrier. Their kiss was lingering, lips moving slowly over each other, chaste and innocent. There was no heat behind it, nothing even remotely sexual or arousing. It was an unassuming giving and receiving of comfort, simple affection, and a promise for the future.

Afterwards, they snuggled beneath the duvet, bracing against the cold of the room by using their combined body heat to guard against it, snuggled together with their arms wrapped around each other, huddling for warmth.


	23. Day 23- Sick (of you)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to TheMadKatter13 for giving me the idea for this chapter :D

From the moment he woke up the next morning, as he dragged himself out of his warm bed and shuffled to the loo, almost tripping over his trailing bathrobe and kicking it out of his way, Sherlock was in a bad mood.

He didn’t know _why_ he felt irritated, but everything bothered him. From the way John breathed so heavily, still asleep in the bed (must be nice to sleep so soundly, Sherlock thought scornfully), to the arrangement of their shampoo bottles in the shower which were always falling to the tiles because there wasn’t room for them all. John had just as many hair products as Sherlock did. It rankled because why did John need this many things in the shower? He didn’t even have more than an inch of hair which he clearly didn’t care that much about anyway. Why did he need conditioner? And some fancy leave-in treatment? When did he even use that? Sherlock shoved John’s things to the back of the shelf, glaring at them while he did, feeling a fierce happiness when he moved his own things to the front and started the shower.

As he stepped beneath the too-hot spray (which itself aggravated him because why wasn’t it possible to get a normal temperature that didn’t either scald him or freeze his balls off?), Sherlock realized that he liked it. He liked being this annoyed. It felt good, the buzzing, tactless, wretched feeling in his chest. It was somewhat uncomfortable, a presage of something-is-wrong gathering in his chest, beneath his ribs.

He loved it.

He gathered it around him like a reassuring blanket, accepting his current irritation with life in general that only grew the more and more he gave it attention by thinking about it. He could have ruled it, mastered the impulse he felt to be mean and spiteful, but he didn’t want to. He didn’t know why exactly he was so angry. He only knew that he was. That was all he needed to know.

It felt good.

Sherlock scrubbed his skin with his sponge beneath the hot water until it turned pink, suds running down his legs and foaming around his feet. The water was too slow to go down the drain and he growled in irritation as it backed up over his feet, sloshing around his ankles. The plumbing in this building was antiquated. One would think, given the amount of rent Mrs. Hudson received on a monthly basis, that she could devote more funds to the upkeep. It was too much to ask for such consideration, Sherlock supposed.

He was meticulous about washing everywhere, lips pulled down, thinking thoughts that were best left unsaid as he did so.

If last night had gone the way he’d wanted, he would probably still be in bed with John. They would have exhausted themselves the previous night with lovemaking and orgasms, normal couple activities, and Sherlock wouldn’t feel such intense hatred as he did this morning. Everything would have been perfect, and there would be no need to-

John knocked on the loo door. Exasperated at being interrupted, Sherlock glared at it. He could see John’s outline through the glass, waiting for his reply. Why the hell couldn’t John just come in? Sherlock was in the shower. It wasn’t as if he was doing something private and even if he were, they were in a relationship. John had sucked his cock for godssakes. They were past worried about being overly private with each other. It was aggravating, but not as much as John’s hesitant-

“Sherlock? It’s me. May I come in?”

Who _else_ would it be? Why did John have to be so provoking? Of course he could come in. Why would he be so stupid to ask a question like that? Sherlock wasn’t so jumpy around him that John couldn’t even be in the loo with him while he showered without giving him a fright.

“ _Yes_.” Sherlock replied and he was ferociously glad that the condescension he felt carried well over the sound of the water spray and through the door because John noticeably paused, the blurry outline of his head twitching to the side as he parsed through what he’d just heard. Sherlock almost hoped he didn’t come in because then that would give him something else to be angry about…but John opened the door and stepped inside. That made Sherlock even angrier, and he closed his eyes, deciding to ignore him.

“Are you…all right?” John’s voice was oh-so-careful as he asked something to which he already knew the answer. Of course Sherlock was all right. They had talked last night about very intimate things. Sherlock had bared his soul for John. John knew everything there was to know about him. There were no secrets between them anymore. They were all right. Everything was fine.

Perfect.

The rage in Sherlock’s chest burned brightly and he didn’t even respond to John’s question, shampooing his hair and ignoring him. John was still looking at him, though, as if he actually expected an answer. He could wait all day if he wanted. Sherlock didn’t care.

“Mm.” John grunted when he realized Sherlock wasn’t actually going to respond. He turned his back to Sherlock to brush his teeth and Sherlock’s aggravation with John spiked. So John was just going to give up that easily? He knew something was wrong with Sherlock. Obviously something was wrong from the way Sherlock was acting, but he wasn’t even going to ask again? He probably didn’t care about what was wrong anyway. After last night, John had more than enough to deal with without also throwing in Sherlock’s current bad mood. Poor John.

Sherlock snorted, rolling his eyes, and he saw John glance at him in the mirror over the sink, but he still didn’t say anything.

Sherlock scratched his nails over his scalp until it tingled, making sure every follicle was as clean as it could be before ducking beneath the spray, closing his eyes and rinsing out the soap, blowing to keep it from getting in his mouth as the water cascaded down his head and over his entire body. It was still just this side of too hot but that felt good because it irked him. Sherlock relished the burn.

Which was why he wasn’t prepared for the water to turn suddenly colder, freezing him unexpectedly. He gasped, jumping from beneath the water. “John!”

“Sorry, sorry!” John apologized, quickly shutting off the tap at the sink and wiping water from his chin. “I was just rinsing- I tried to be quick!”

“Maybe next time you can manage to wait until I’m _out_ of the shower?” Sherlock suggested hatefully, not bothering to hide his irritation and John didn’t respond to that either, but Sherlock saw his jaw clench, his eyes becoming wary and guarded, narrowing slightly. Oh, John was _thinking_. That was nice, but Sherlock didn’t have time to wait for him to come up with an original thought.

It was such an unkind thing to think about John that Sherlock stopped, hands frozen in the act of turning off the knobs.

That had been wrong of him to think. Ungenerous to the lowest extent. The knowledge made him angry at himself. Growling beneath his breath, he swiped at the knobs, turning the shower off and opened the curtain- and John turned around, away from Sherlock, busying himself by wiping at the sink so he wouldn’t see Sherlock naked.

It was such a surprising thing to do that Sherlock drew up short.

So that’s the way it was, was it? Sherlock stood right where he was and dried off, taking his time about it and irritation at John building with every passing second the longer he stayed turned around. Even when John got done at the sink, he stayed where he was, giving Sherlock privacy. He didn’t even try and sneak a peek at Sherlock in the mirror, keeping his eyes down and to the side politely. Distantly, buried deeply beneath all his prideful frustration, Sherlock knew he should be grateful for John being so respectful towards him. John had erected boundaries to protect Sherlock and his feelings and he was strictly abiding by those. Sherlock was aware that if he called to him, John would turn around and look all he wanted at Sherlock while he was naked, so long as Sherlock gave him permission to do so, and enjoy the view. He’d probably lick his lips the way he did when something turned him on, give Sherlock that slow spreading smile, and say something naughty that would make Sherlock blush.

But he shouldn’t have to overtly tell John he was allowed to stare at him naked, Sherlock thought, scowling at John’s back. John should know it was okay. He’d done it before and Sherlock had never told John he wasn’t allowed to look at him. The very fact that Sherlock had permitted him inside the loo with him while he was naked was invitation enough to look. Sherlock knew he was being unfair to John, that his thoughts towards the man he loved were cruel, and for some reason that pissed him off even more.

“Don’t worry, John. You won’t have to worry about not looking- I’m leaving.” He snapped and he slung the towel around his hips, stalking past John into the bedroom, closing the door with a sharp click behind him. There was silence inside the loo and Sherlock stared through the glass door where he could still see John’s outline standing at the sink, unmoving. He turned away from it- see? He could turn his back to John too- and toweled at his hair, rubbing at it forcefully until it stuck up in all directions, giving him a distinctly electrocuted look. From beneath the towel, he heard the shower start and he wondered if John were moving all his shampoo bottles back in front of Sherlock’s own which would just create more work for Sherlock the next time he wanted to shower…

Sherlock sank down on the side of his unmade bed, putting his head in his hands and taking a deep breath. He needed to stop this. He wasn’t angry at John.

Correction.

He didn’t _think_ he was angry at John. Not really. He was angry, but he didn’t know at what.

Last night had been horrible; he could admit that. He could also admit that after last night, he felt…exposed. Bared for all the world to see. He didn’t want to feel that way. He hated feeling like that.

It reminded Sherlock of the first few months when he’d returned to London and Mycroft had made him visit a therapist twice weekly. He’d wanted Sherlock to go more often, but two times a week was all Sherlock would agree to. For the hour he sat in front of his therapist, being asked probing questions about his time in Serbia, being tortured, how the multiple assaults had made him feel, Sherlock hated it. After every session, he felt raw and bloody, the wound having been picked at and opened, made to bleed afresh. Mycroft, latching onto Sherlock’s analogy, explained that such a thing was needed to purge the infection from the wound. The scab, he said, would cover the infection and allow it to fester, eventually leading to bigger problems if it wasn’t dealt with properly.

Mycroft had been wrong. There was no infection. Sherlock was fine. He would have been better, he had told Mycroft, if the woman would stop asking him deeply personal questions. Questions about his sexual experiences before Serbia, or the lack thereof, questions about how the rapes had made him feel and sympathetically recommending a sex therapist when Sherlock negatively replied to questions about his masturbatory habits since returning. Questions about his feelings of worth as a person, both before and after, and asking if he felt he was coping well with what had happened, while the therapist’s eyes had told him that she didn’t think he was. Questions that, in general, reminded him two times a week of what had happened.

“The more you pick at a wound and meddle with it just for the sake of meddling, without administering the proper treatment, the more it will grow, and the more infected it will become.” Sherlock had snapped at Mycroft when he’d been picked up, having stormed out of his final session with his therapist. It wasn’t supposed to have been his final session, but Sherlock had ended it. “I don’t want to sit and talk about what happened. Ever again. So just. Leave. Me. Alone.”

Mycroft hadn’t made Sherlock go back to the therapist, and Sherlock felt better. The wound was allowed to heal, he thought. He no longer felt unprotected and vulnerable. It was fine.

Last night had proved that it wasn’t.

And Sherlock was _angry_.

At John? At himself? Mycroft? The men in Serbia who Mycroft assured him were already dead?

He didn’t know. He was just angry. But how did he want John to fix it? Sherlock asked himself the very serious question, and couldn’t think of an answer. How could John act or speak or reason with him to fix how Sherlock felt? He couldn’t. Sherlock knew that no matter what John did at the moment, it would just annoy him further.

The best thing to do, he decided, dressing himself in his best shirt and trousers, buttoning his jacket around himself with a practiced hand and decidedly not thinking of his clothes as his armor, preparing himself for battle, was to avoid John as much as possible. For the rest of the day at least and until these feelings went away and Sherlock was more…himself. Until he figured out what was wrong and a solution to the problem.

He didn’t want to provoke John or fight with him. As much as he hated to admit it at the moment, Sherlock knew John was being very kind and respectful, bending over backwards to make Sherlock feel loved and cared for despite any and all revelations Sherlock told him. It was Sherlock himself who was the problem. Not John.

Sherlock sniffed, running his fingers over his face before steepling them beneath his chin. He needed a distraction. A way to occupy his time and calm himself so he could make things right with John.

John who was still in the shower.

Sherlock stared at the closed door. It had already been a long time. Sherlock himself had toweled off, dressed, and somewhat fixed his hair in the vanity, while John was still showering. What was John doing in there? It didn’t take this long to wash and he wasn’t shaving. He’d already brushed his teeth-

_Oh._

Sherlock’s face went slack in revelation when he realized, his hands suddenly numb, falling away from his chin. After their activities last night had ended so abruptly, John was using his time in the shower to masturbate.

Sherlock blinked rapidly at the loo door, trying to understand what he was feeling. Pain. Hurt. Betrayal. Salt rubbed over the raw place in his chest that was excruciating, that took his breath away.

John was standing under the spray, letting it hit his back and keep him warm, while he took his cock in his own hand and stroked himself. Sherlock could see it in his mind’s eye. John’s eyes would slide closed with relief because after last night he was unfulfilled and after Sherlock’s display he didn’t want to bother him with his needs. Anything sexual with Sherlock was too complicated, and John didn’t have time for that. He just wanted to get off.

He would bite his lip to keep from moaning, so Sherlock wouldn’t hear. He’d draw it out a bit, not wanting to rush his orgasm too much so it wasn’t satisfactory, but not wanting to take too long so that Sherlock would know what he was doing either. His brows would scrunch together as he stroked himself off, mouth falling open as he soundlessly gasped, his hand moving quicker, and he would cast about for something to think of. Maybe he would think of Sherlock sucking him off, but statistically he would fall back on material he had used to satiate his lust with in the past, tried and true images and thoughts that could get him off the quickest. It would work, his muscles clenching, head falling back while he-

Sherlock slapped the door open, barging in without knocking because, as he had established earlier, there was no reason for knocking between them anymore. John startled at the sudden intrusion, swearing, and Sherlock knew he had been right. The curtain hid John’s cock from him, but the evidence of what he’d been doing was there for all to see in John’s guilty flush, the way his chest heaved with labored breaths, the tension in his shoulders and the way he held himself.

“Sherlock?”

Husky voice, laced with both need and self-reproach. John had been conflicted about touching himself, and he hadn’t wanted Sherlock to know he was doing it.

They both knew Sherlock knew.

Sherlock blinked at John, different remarks coming to mind, opening his mouth to say them, thinking twice and then closing his mouth again. John stared, waiting for him to say something, his apprehension growing by the second.

“Is Rosie still asleep?” Sherlock asked, choosing as innocuous a subject as possible- and inane. He knew Rosie was still asleep, but John latched onto the gambit.

“Uh. Yeah. Yeah, she still is. I was going to get her up when I got out of the shower.”

Sherlock nodded, moving to the door, then turned back. He opened his mouth again…then shook his head. “Don’t rush yourself, John. I’ll get her up myself.”

* * *

 

The loo door snapped closed behind Sherlock and John deflated, looking at the rippling glass as if the reason for the way Sherlock was acting would be written there. It wasn’t. Life wasn’t so easy. His cock was barely half-hard after being scared out of his wits by Sherlock bursting in and the desire to masturbate had mostly gone away. John sighed, leaning his head back against the shower tiles with a thunk.

“Fuck.”

He’d woken up alone, to the sounds of Sherlock in the shower, and he thought he’d join him, careful to ask approval first so he wouldn’t scare him. But Sherlock was already angry about something, and for the life of him John didn’t know what. After their discussion last night, he’d thought they had made progress. He’d thought that things would be better between them, easier. Instead, it seemed the exact opposite.

And if John hadn’t known better, he would have said that Sherlock was trying to make him angry with him. On purpose.

It wasn’t that far-fetched. John soaped his body contemplatively. Sherlock had done that before in the past, years ago, swanning around and saying and doing things just get a rise out of John. John had never cared to figure out why Sherlock did things like that. He’d try not to get mad, not wanting to give Sherlock the satisfaction of getting a rise out of him, but he would always get mad in the end, just like Sherlock wanted and storm off. He’d leave, go out of the flat and find another place to kip for the night. It’d seemed during those times as if Sherlock enjoyed fighting with John; and even if it drove him mad, John had never cared to find out why.

Now, it was different. It was important for John to know why. The problem was that he was just as goddamn clueless now as he had been four years ago.

Maybe, he thought as he turned the taps off and stepped out of the shower, he was reading too much into this. It was just possible that he and Sherlock had been cooped up together for too long. He loved being with Sherlock, really he did, but everyone needed space to fucking breathe every once in a while, apart. A little time to themselves. They had been together the whole month of December and maybe it was finally grating on Sherlock’s nerves. There hadn’t been another case since the Pilfering Santa earlier in the month, and the lack of action, of activity, was probably making Sherlock bored and snappish.

They just needed some time apart. That was all.

John thought of what he could do while he dressed. He’d look on the website, see if there were any new cases for them. If there wasn’t, he’d badger Sherlock to check his own e-mail and maybe respond to a few requests- even if they were asinine. If he was really desperate, he’d text Lestrade and beg for something else to keep Sherlock occupied. They just needed something to do, some activity that didn’t involve being in the flat alone together for another day.

It seemed like a perfect plan.

* * *

 

Sherlock had Rosie up and dressed and sitting in her highchair in the kitchen by the time John emerged from the bedroom. She was stuffing scrambled eggs into her mouth and accidentally threw an excited handful at John when she saw him come in.

“Hello, love.” He pecked her on the head, picking egg out of her hair, and turned to Sherlock- but he was reading the paper, a cup of tea in front of him, ignoring John.

All right.

John poured himself a cup of tea and pushed some bread down into the toaster, the kitchen unusually quiet except for Rosie’s egg-muffled babbling. Sherlock turned a page in the newspaper with a noticeable flick that made John wince, but he didn’t say anything, sitting down across from him and tucking into his toast.

Every crunchy bite was as loud as a bomb going off, and he could see Sherlock getting visibly annoyed the longer John took to chew. He tried sinking his teeth into the toast quieter, slowly biting through it, but toast was not a food that wanted to be eaten delicately. John persevered through half his slice before he couldn’t take the tension anymore.

“I’m going to take Rosie to the sitter’s after breakfast.” He ventured, pushing his plate away. Sherlock lifted his eyebrows in acknowledgement, but his attention never left the paper.

“Do you need anything from the shop while I’m out?”

No answer. John took that as a no. He cleared his throat, looking to see if Rosie was done with her breakfast, uncertain.

“Um…look, Sherlock…about this morning-“

“I have no wish to discuss your mastur-“ Sherlock cut himself off abruptly, realizing Rosie was listening to them, and changed direction. “Your _habits_ , John. You’re a grown man. Do as you please, I don’t care.”

Okay. Right. Sure. Hardly convincing.

“Um. That really wasn’t what I was going to talk about. But now you mention it. Uh. I just want to make sure you don’t think…It wasn’t because of anything you-“

Sherlock snapped his paper closed, making the pages rattle loudly as he folded them helter-skelter in a flurry of movement. He stood, dumping his untouched cup of tea in the sink.

“I said I didn’t care.” He said tonelessly, striding past John and down the hall into his room, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

 

When John returned from dropping Rosie off at the sitters- and taking a bracing walk a few times around the block- as soon as he opened the front door he could hear the loud shattering of glass from upstairs. Mrs. Hudson hovered at the bottom of the stairs, wincing every time something robustly cracked, tinkling to pieces and leaving ominous silence behind until the next earsplitting shatter.

“I don’t know what he’s doing up there.” She urgently moved to John as soon as she saw him, wringing her hands. “He’s been at it for at least a half hour.” She said. “I heard him break something while I was putting the kettle on and everything seemed fine. I heard him going for the dustpan…and then he just…started.”

John looked up as something else broke and he spared Mrs. Hudson one more confused look before he ran up the stairs, taking them as quickly as he could. He knew Sherlock heard him coming, but he clearly made no move to stop what he was doing as something else shattered once John cleared the landing. He rushed into the kitchen, stopping, aghast as he took in the mess.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Sherlock looked around at John stood in the doorway, eyes flicking over him dismissively. John felt his anger tick up another notch.

“What does it look like?” Sherlock tossed a large beaker behind him in the general direction of the sink. It shattered on the floor. He carelessly reached for another. The cabinet was opened where he kept all his scientific equipment, arranged just so and locked away from Rosie, and it looked as if Sherlock was reorganizing, some boxes and materials on the table, clearing old things out. He wasn’t doing a good job of it.

Another beaker shattered, this time landing in the sink, and the glass on metal sound was ear-splitting.

“Would you please stop doing that?” John kept his voice as even as he could, but it still came out terse and angry. Another beaker was thrown at the sink and John flexed his fingers, trying to remain calm.

“Why are you breaking all your things?” He hoped that maybe if he rephrased the question Sherlock would actually answer him. Sherlock shrugged, delving into his cabinet and removing more glass vials.

“I’m not breaking all my things. Obviously. I was going to do an experiment with the liver Molly gave me last week, but when I tried to dissolve a piece with the acid, my beaker broke.” Sherlock looked in the direction of the table, and John could see the jagged pieces of glass still left lying, surrounded by a pool of liquid and a small portion of liver. “And I decided that the reason it broke was because it was out of date. Glass instruments can warp and become compromised, weakening in certain areas, especially considering some of the experiments I do. Some of them were chipped as well. They’re old. Quite a few of them are from before I left. So I thought I would get rid of them.”

“Okay. But. Couldn’t you have just…I dunno.” John watched Sherlock toss another glass container into the sink. “Put them gently in the bins?”

“Of course. I don’t think that’s outside the realm of my abilities.” Sherlock quipped. “But this is more fun.”

“And who do you think will clean all this up?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I’m sure I’ll get around to it later.”

John watched from the doorway while Sherlock continued to break his glass containers. He didn’t really think he could stop him, especially since Sherlock seemed so intent on destruction. And he wasn’t hurting himself, just his own possessions, and John knew he had the money to replace them all, so he let him carry on for a bit. His unease grew by the minute, though, and finally he couldn’t take it anymore.

“Sherlock. Want to tell me what’s wrong?”

Sherlock paused in the midst of his destruction, opening his mouth to no doubt reply with a pithy remark…but he looked at John, really looked at him, blinking in the odd, distracting way he had when there was something very wrong, and closed his mouth without speaking. He stared down at the small glass tube still in his hands, turning it over, and he looked suddenly so vulnerable John’s anger melted away. The morning light filtered in through the window, striking Sherlock and throwing illumination throughout the kitchen, and it somehow made him look impossibly young. John uncrossed his arms, waiting to see what Sherlock would say.

“I don’t know, John.”

The reprieve from the sounds of breaking glass made John’s ears ring, but he made his way over to where Sherlock was, a few pieces of glass crunching beneath his shoes. “Is this about last night? Or this morning?”

“Neither. Both.” Sherlock shook his head, closing his eyes and sighing, and John reached out to him-

Sherlock backed away, purposefully putting distance between himself and John. His rejection was a sharp sting and John let his hand fall away, hurt. Disquiet bled into his chest as he realized this was more than Sherlock acting out in a fit of pique.

“Last night…” Sherlock began, softly placing the glass he was holding in the sink with a small clink. “I didn’t like what happened last night.”

“I know.” John murmured. “And I’m sorry it happened, Sherlock. I didn’t mean to and I promise I won’t-“

“No.” Sherlock shook his head, his curls, which John noticed he hadn’t styled as usual, bouncing from side to side. Without the regular mousse and hair gel or whatever the hell it was he usually put in his hair, Sherlock looked fluffy, like a surprised dandelion. “Not that.”

John frowned. “I don’t…”

“After that. The things I told you.”

John nodded slowly, comprehension dawning, mixed with guilt. “I didn’t mean to force a confession from you last night-“

“Please, John. _Don’t._ Just let me finish.”

John closed his mouth and waited for Sherlock to explain. Sherlock took a deep breath, adjusting the button of his jacket and pressing the bespoke fabric even though there were no wrinkles, avoiding John as hard as he could.

“Mycroft made me see a therapist when I came back from Serbia.” He said. “She was very good. Highly qualified. Lots of nice, shiny credentials. Mind-numbing. Tedious. She asked me questions, which I answered. She surmised and I confirmed or denied. She gave her hypothesis and I told her that her university degree had clearly been wasted. It wasn’t helping.” He shrugged. “I told Mycroft it was like reopening a wound every time I had another session. I quit going.”

John waited, knowing he probably wouldn’t like what Sherlock would say next.

“That’s why, after last night, I’ve been…” Sherlock fell silent, struggling for words. It was eerily quiet in the flat. No telly playing, no hiss of the radiator, and even the sound of traffic was nonexistent. It was as if they were sheltered in their own cocoon. John couldn’t even hear noises from downstairs, and he wondered if Mrs. Hudson was still waiting at the bottom of the stairs.

“I don’t like talking about it. I don’t like how it makes me feel. It’s like reliving it all over again when I do.” Sherlock shook his head, grimacing. “Which makes no logical sense.” He snapped. “Cerebrally, I understand that, but at some point in _here_ it all gets muddled up and confused.”

His fingers pressed at his temples, so hard John saw his fingernails turn white and he winced. Sherlock’s frustration was palpable and John wanted to help him, but felt powerless.

“It was easy before this.” Sherlock said, indicating himself and John. “I compartmentalized it and worked through the experience logically, by myself, and rationalized how I felt and what had happened and why each incident had occurred. I was fine. It was a physical experience which, while extremely unpleasant, had transpired and there was nothing I could do to fix that or change it. Therefore, I accepted what had happened, I grasped the understanding that I was not physically changed by the experience, and that I was fine. Except now, with you, I realize I’m not. And that…” Sherlock broke off, turning away from John and moving towards the hallway, but spinning back around before he left.

“It’s _infuriating_.” He growled, his face drawn in a scowl so fierce John almost took a step back. Sherlock advanced on John, the anger rolling off him in waves. “Do you realize how long I’ve wanted this?” He asked, voice cutting, the timbre so low that the sound of it rumbled in his chest. “Do you know how many years I have wanted to have this with you?”

John shook his head. Sherlock stopped in front of him, eyes flicking from John’s lips to his eyes, back and forth. He still looked angry and it made John wonder if Sherlock wanted to hit him or kiss him.

“From the moment I met you.” He whispered and John took a shuddering breath. Sherlock’s eyes jumped to his lips again. “I wanted this with you, John. Except now it’s all wrong. I can’t even…” He broke off again, clenching his teeth together and John jumped when Sherlock’s hands came up, resting on his hips and using that leverage to bend closer until he could kiss him. John tilted his head up when Sherlock slanted his lips across his, and he was just falling into the kiss when Sherlock pulled away.

“We needed to talk last night. But today…I want to be alone.”

“Okay. Um. I thought earlier it might be good for you to find a case or…or something to occupy ourselves with. Get out of the flat for a while?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I need to be alone, John.”

“Okay.” John said again, because he didn’t know what else he could say. “All right. Um. I’ll just…” He motioned at the door without any real idea of what he was going to do. He guessed he could go for another walk? Maybe get a few extra presents for Christmas for Rosie? Sherlock’s fingers tightened on John’s hips to keep him from leaving.

“I just need some time, John. I still love you.” He said softly, and John wondered if Sherlock even realized that was the first time he’d actually told John he loved him, in so many words. John’s throat felt tight, and he nodded without speaking. He didn’t think he’d be able to anyway.

Sherlock smiled, quickly kissing John again, before turning away. “I’ve already texted Lestrade. He’ll meet you at the pub when he leaves work, sometime around 4, if you’re interested. You’ve not been out in months so I assumed you would be. Of course, Stamford’s already left multiple messages on your blog, asking for a meet-up. If none of that appeals, I could leave. I could go to Bart’s or-“

“No, no. That’s fine. I’ll go. Um. I’ll have to pick up Rosie though-“

“I could pick her up. You can just…enjoy your night off? Go to the pub. Eat their bad food. Watch the telly. Drink with Lestrade?” Sherlock looked unsure. “If that’s okay?”

It actually sounded like a great evening, if John were being honest, because Sherlock was right. He hadn’t been out like that in months, ever since he’d decided to be a better father to Rosie. It’d be nice to cut loose, drink, and not worry about things. Just for one evening. It made him feel guilty as fuck to go out and enjoy himself though while he knew Sherlock would be back at the flat, upset. But Sherlock had said he needed time to himself, and he seemed to have already planned John’s evening.

“I mean…if that’s what you want…”

Sherlock gave John his first genuine smile all day. “Yes. It is. Thank you for understanding.”

* * *

 

I picked Rosie up from the sitters. SH

Thank you. JW

We are having pasta. Enjoying your evening? SH

Yeah. Thanks for this and don’t let her put too much parmesan on it. JW

Do not stifle her. That’s the only acceptable way to eat pasta, John. SH

I love you. SH

I love you too. JW

* * *

 

It was after midnight when John came back to the flat. He was buzzing on cheap alcohol, fried bar food, and having a fantastic night with Greg. They’d talked, laughed, and joked, bullshitting each other all night. It had been awkward at first when Greg first got there, but their evening had gotten much better after Greg had given John a Look, putting on his best cop face, and warned John that if he hurt Sherlock, Greg would hurt his face. John had blinked, surprised, then agreed.

“Um. Yeah. That’s…sure. If I hurt Sherlock again, I’d let you. I think I’d ask for it, actually.”

The answer seemed to satisfy Greg and everything had been easy between them again. It was dark and quiet in the flat. Even the Christmas lights were off. John stumbled his way through the sitting room, but Rosie wasn’t asleep in her crib, so he slowly made his way down the hall, expecting to find Sherlock in his bedroom with Rosie, both of them asleep beneath the covers. But that was empty, too.

John sluggishly climbed the stairs, weaving a bit more than he wanted to. He was more drunk than he’d thought, but not so much that stairs were beyond him. He took his time though, just to be sure, only stumbling on the top step. Upstairs, his bedroom door was open and soft yellow light was coming from within. The lights were star-shaped. John blinked at it, confused. Rosie’s penguin was glowing, casting an array of stars over the entire room, the ceiling and walls. She liked to sleep with the penguin on sometimes, staring up at the stars and singing softly to herself, but it turned off after 10 minutes to preserve the battery.

John stepped into his bedroom and the stars suddenly went out. A _click_ \- and the stars exploded across the room again, momentarily disorienting John. When he could see again, he saw Sherlock, on John’s bed, his knees drawn up to his chest, the penguin sat beside him where he had obviously been pressing it on for what John assumed had been a while, waiting for John to get home.

Rosie was asleep in her bed, and John didn’t even have to check on her. He knew she would have been fed, and bathed. Sherlock would have powdered her and changed her nappy, put her in warm pajamas, and probably read her a bedtime story so she would sleep well, then spent the rest of the evening pushing her penguin so she would have a roomful of stars to sleep beneath. John knew all that without even being told because he knew what kind of person Sherlock was and he wasn’t going to insult him by checking on Rosie.

John silently regarded Sherlock from across the room, while Sherlock did the same to him, their eyes wary. There were a lot of things John wanted to say to Sherlock, and he’d rehearsed a speech on his way back to the flat, but all of that went out the window and he heard himself instead saying-

“I’m sorry.”

“What are you sorry for?”

“For today.” John eased onto the edge of the mattress and Sherlock watched him, not relaxing his posture.

“I’m sick of being coddled.” He whispered, as quiet as possible so he wouldn’t wake Rosie, and John snorted.

“Well. I’m sick of you acting like you don’t deserve to be loved.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows went up. The penguin light snapped off and he pushed its belly. The stars blazed into life again. “What does that mean?”

“You know what it means.”

“Clearly I don’t because I just asked.”

“It means that I don’t coddle you. I just…try and love you.”

“I know you try, but it’s hard. I make it hard.” Sherlock admitted but John shook his head before he’d even finished speaking. “I’m not perfect.”

“Fuck no, you’re not.” John chuckled and Sherlock blinked, surprised and hurt, the sparkle of stars reflected in his eyes.

“You are far from perfect.” John said, grinning. “You can be a posh annoying sod who is rude and disrespectful. You blow stuff up. You break all your science equipment and make a mess.” John scooted closer to Sherlock and he watched him come suspiciously. “You’ve landed us in jail a few times. I’ve been given an ASBO before. Multiple ones actually. I’ve had to save your arse more times than I can count- and you’ve done the same to me, after getting us in ridiculous situations. You’re not perfect, Sherlock. And all that is what I love about you. Because you can drive me absolutely mad, and then I see what a great father you are to Rosie. I see how kind and caring you can be not just to her, but to me too. You’re forgiving. You’re funny. God, you’re fucking funny. We laugh about things we probably shouldn’t, but we do anyway. You’re smarter than me-“

John blinked. “Wait. I think I’m a little drunk.”

Sherlock smiled at him. “Maybe a little.” He didn’t try to move away when John scooted his arse closer, until he was almost touching Sherlock’s legs. John took that as a good sign.

“Well. You are. Smart, I mean. But you know that. You’re crazy and gorgeous and you have the biggest fucking heart out of anyone I know. You hide it. But it’s there.” John rested his chin on Sherlock’s drawn-up knees, putting their faces close together and, because he didn’t see why not, rubbed his nose against Sherlock’s until Sherlock giggled and pushed him away, stretching his legs out on the bed so John could lean over him.

“I don’t coddle you. Or maybe I do. I dunno, but it’s just because I love you.”

“I know that, John. You’re being considerate. I love that about you.”

John grinned, wiggling his eyebrows. “What else do you love about me?”

Sherlock laughed, startled, then quieted, checking to make sure he hadn’t woken Rosie. She still slept peacefully, unbothered by her silly daddies. The penguin light clicked off, but this time Sherlock didn’t reactivate it. Plunged into darkness, it was easier for him to say what he wanted and he sat up so John could feel his body heat against him.

“I love lots of things about you.” Sherlock whispered, and the sound of his voice coming from so close in the dark tugged at something low in John’s stomach. “Which is why it’s frustrating to be coddled. There are things you can do with me that you don’t have to always ask permission for. I’m not going to break over everything. I want us to be…normal. As normal as possible.” He amended.

“What does that mean?”

Sherlock made an exasperated noise. “Kiss me.” He snapped. “Grab me and kiss me whenever you want. Like you did at Molly’s, after the party. And you don’t have to ask to see me naked. What we talked about last night, those are my triggers. Beyond that…I want you to be… _dirty_.”

Oh fuck. John’s heart kicked up a notch and he must have made a noise because Sherlock shifted on the bed, and this time he was the one who was moving closer to John.

“Tell me…tell me you want me.” Sherlock said. “I want you to…”

“God, _please_ , tell me.” John breathed and he felt Sherlock shudder. He stifled a moan, wanting to kiss him, and wished they’d had this conversation downstairs.

“I want you to come downstairs and tell me…tell me you can’t stop thinking about how my mouth looks wrapped around your cock and would I please suck you off?”

John’s cock throbbed, hardening in his jeans, but Sherlock wasn’t close to being done.

“Or find me on the sofa and…stroke me off without saying a word. Give me the quickest, best orgasm of my life. Surprise me in the shower and we can make love there…Show me how much you want me without waiting for me to make the first move…Find me undressing for the night and go to your knees and…then take me to bed…”

John realized in a blinding flash that he was hearing Sherlock’s fantasies. Sherlock had told him last night- when John asked, what do you want?- he had replied “you.” Sherlock wanted him. Period. Full stop. He didn’t want to always be overprotected and tiptoed around as if he were fragile glass, like his scientific instruments. He wanted John to want him and _show_ it, without always talking about it beforehand and parsing through the whys and wherefores. Sherlock had done what John had asked him to last night- he’d told him his triggers, what had happened to him and how they could avoid mishaps in the future- and John could easily work within the boundaries set without always talking about it beforehand. They could act like a regular couple. In love, unable to keep their hands off each other.

That would not be difficult for John to do.

“Wake me up.” Sherlock said, apropos of nothing, and John cocked his head to the side, wondering what Sherlock meant by that.

“Wake me up by…by sucking my cock. Then let me return the favor. I want to do that. I’ve…been thinking about it since last night-”

John didn’t know who moved first, but they were suddenly kissing and he assumed it was him because Sherlock made a surprised noise and fell back against the pillows. He pushed at John’s chest, struggling.

“Rosie-!” He scolded and John sighed, dropping his head to Sherlock’s chest.

“I know. You’re right.” He took a deep breath, getting himself under control before pushing away from Sherlock. “Okay. I guess we can sleep up here tonight.”

“If that’s what you want.”

Not exactly a ringing endorsement. John cocked an eyebrow. “What did you have in mind?”

“We can stay up here if that’s what you want.” Sherlock said neutrally, and John thought about what Sherlock had said about being overprotected and John being so careful with him and waiting for Sherlock to make the first move. He wanted to feel wanted. John could do that. My god, he’d been wanting to do that for years.

“I’d rather go back downstairs.” John said truthfully, and was rewarded when Sherlock looked up at him. He leaned close enough to Sherlock’s ear that his lips brushed against the shell of it every time he spoke because he did _not_ want Rosie to accidentally overhear what he was about to say.

“And when we get down there, I’m taking you to bed. And I’m going to suck your cock until you can’t feel your goddamn legs and you’re begging me to let you come. Then, and only then, Sherlock, when literally all you can say to me is ‘please’, will I finish you off.” Sherlock’s eyes were wider than John had ever seen them, his breathing quick and shallow, and for a second John was afraid he’d said the wrong thing, misread the whole situation- then Sherlock took a trembling breath.

“Please.” He murmured and John grinned. Eager, he grabbed Sherlock’s hand and pulled him downstairs to make good on his promise.


	24. Day 24- Socks/Boots

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a Rosie chapter filled with disgusting amounts of fluff. You will get diabetes from this chapter.

“John… _oh-oh-oh_ -no, wait-!”

“Remember what I said upstairs?”

“Yes…”

“When you can only say please…or my name. Because Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

“I really fucking like the way you say my name when you’re like this.”

“John…ohhhh, _John_ …”

“Mm. Yeah, like that, love.”

“Oh…oh…god, John-ah! John…John…John…oh, please- _ah-ah-ah-ah_ \- J- _John_!”

* * *

 

Rosie’s daddies were happy. She didn’t know why, but she was happy they were happy.

Her daddy woke her that morning, smelling fresh and clean from the shower with his hair still wet and sticking up, kissing her face with minty breath until she giggled and shrieked and squirmed to get away. The good mood continued as her daddy changed her nappy, put her in her favorite dress, pulled fuzzy purple socks that went past her knees on her feet to keep her toes warm, and brushed her hair until it fluffed out around her. Rosie shook her head to feel it bounce and move and when daddy asked if she wanted a hair ribbon, she kept shaking her head because she liked the way her hair felt loose and pretty. Just like her favorite princess.

Daddy let her twirl down the hallway to the top of the stairs, her hands raised over her head like she’d seen pretty women do on the telly. It made her dizzy but it was fun. Whenever she twirled, her dress billowed out around her and Rosie liked to lightly rest her hands over the fabric and feel the way it flew the faster she spun. Rosie didn’t want to make daddy upset and take him out of his good mood, so she waited at the top of the stairs for him to walk her down- without being told. She beamed up at him when he told her she was a good girl and she let him take her hand as they began their slow, halting journey down the stairs.

Halfway down, Rosie smelled breakfast. It smelled wonderful, rich and sweet, like pancakes. She suddenly realized how hungry she was and there were still so many steps left to go, and she didn’t want to walk the rest of the way to the kitchen herself. It would take too long. She fussed, tugging on daddy’s hand and raised her arms so he could pick her up and carry her the rest of the way.

“Don’t you want to walk, Rosie? You were doing really well.”

“Dad-dee! No!” Rosie stuck her arms up harder, locking her elbows and bouncing on the tips of her toes when daddy was slow to lift her up. He did, though, because he loved her, and Rosie comfortably propped her butt on his arm as they traveled the rest of the way down the stairs and into the kitchen in record time.

Fluffy daddy was at the stove cooking and Rosie reached out her arms to him so he would take her. Sometimes he held her and let her watch him flip eggs or stir soup. It was so interesting. He wouldn’t let her help, but Rosie liked to watch anyway.

“Daa-deee!” Rosie yelled when he didn’t notice her and fluffy daddy turned around, already smiling at her.

“Good morning, Rosie!”

But he didn’t try and take her out of daddy’s arms. He went back to cooking breakfast, saying something to daddy, like he didn’t know that Rosie needed him.

“Dad-deee!” She demanded more insistently, impatient as she leaned further out, reaching for him. “ _Da-aaa-deee_!”

Fluffy daddy gave her a strange look. His eyes went very, very wide and the spatula he’d been holding clattered to the floor but he didn’t even seem to notice. Rosie didn’t know what was wrong. She didn’t know why he was looking at her, then daddy like that, or why he backed up so fast, grabbing at the nearest available thing, his hip hit the stove and jostling a few of the pans.

“Da-dee!” Rosie tried again, whining and raising her voice because she didn’t know why he wasn’t coming to get her. Fluffy daddy always picked her up when she wanted and he was always ready to cuddle her and she wanted to watch him cook and he still wasn’t coming to get her. This wasn’t like him.

“Sit down, Sherlock.” Daddy was suddenly moving very fast, not losing his grip on Rosie but transferring her to one arm and dragging out a chair from the table with his free hand. The legs of it scraped against the floor with a screech and Rosie screwed up her face- then daddy was pushing fluffy daddy into the chair. Although, push wasn’t right. It looked like fluffy daddy fell into the chair, more than sat.

“I promise, John, I didn’t mean to give her that idea.” Fluffy daddy sounded so anxious that it started to scare Rosie. She whined, clutching at daddy’s shirt. She didn’t know what was wrong. Had she done something bad? But fluffy daddy didn’t mind when she watched him cook.

“I promise, John, I didn’t do anything on purpose- I didn’t-“

“Ssssh, calm down, Sherlock. Calm down. It’s all right. Just breathe. It’s all right.”

Fluffy daddy wheezed, inhaling deep lungfuls of air and blowing them back out while his hands covered his mouth, shaking like leaves. Rosie started to cry.

“I’m sorry, John. I don’t know what I did. I don’t. I didn’t mean to make her think that. I didn’t try…I didn’t set out to make her think that. I promise.”

Daddy knelt on the kitchen floor in front of fluffy daddy, still holding Rosie and bringing them both down to eye level with him. Rosie sniffled but she didn’t reach for fluffy daddy again, cowering against daddy’s chest. Fluffy daddy was upset. She’d made him upset and she didn’t know why. He was never upset with her. She was scared.

“Sherlock. Look at me.”

Rosie knew daddy would make everything better. He sounded so calm. She was so relieved that she started crying harder because she had been so frightened that everything was wrong, wrong, wrong.

“It’s fine. I’m not mad. Not even close.” He shifted Rosie so he could hold her with one arm again, couldn’t, and had to gently stand her on the floor in front of him. Fluffy daddy looked like he was crying and so Rosie kept crying too, burying her face in daddy’s chest because she didn’t want to see fluffy daddy cry.

“Sherlock.” Daddy held her with one arm and took fluffy daddy’s hand with the other, bringing it to his chest and holding it there. Rosie could see their joined hands in the corner of her eyes and she turned her head, sniffling, to watch. Daddy held fluffy daddy’s shaky hand in his, thumb rubbing along the back of it and slowly, the shaking stopped. Wanting to help too, Rosie carefully reached out and plucked at daddy’s skin, the hairs on the back of fluffy daddy’s hand, pecking at them with her fingers and she thought she was assisting since no one told her to stop.

“I’m fine with it if you are.” Daddy said. Rosie didn’t know what he meant, but daddy kept talking. “More than fine. That is…if you’ll have us?”

“John.”

Now Rosie knew fluffy daddy was crying but she didn’t have time to be afraid because she was suddenly squashed between both of her daddies as they hugged, fluffy daddy joining them on the floor. And she was confused because she’d thought they were crying but now they were laughing and touching their faces together. They’d seemingly forgotten about Rosie and that she was between them so she wriggled to draw attention to herself- and was immediately enveloped in kisses all over her face and cheeks and chin from both sides. She forgot that she was supposed to be angry at being ignored and shrieked, tucking her chin into her neck to protect it from tickles and laughing just as hard as her daddies were.

It was so much fun, the trio crying and laughing and kissing on the kitchen floor, that no one noticed the-

“Fuck-!”

Acrid, choking smoke filled the kitchen in black billowing clouds and they quickly broke apart, her daddies shouting. Fluffy daddy grabbed up Rosie and hurried to open the windows, frigid air rushing in to clear out the smoke, while daddy ran to the stove and started turning the dials and moving pans around in frenzied movements. Rosie watched the chaos, not understanding what was happening, but fluffy daddy was finally holding her, maybe a little too tightly, but it was what she’d wanted all along, and she was content.

* * *

 

“Breakfast is a total loss. I think we’ll have to bin that pan, actually.”

“I’m sorry, John. I should have been more careful.”

“Trust me. I understand. We both forgot about it. We’ll just go downstairs to the café. I’m waiting on Rosie to find her doll though. She won’t leave the flat without it.”

“Right…Um…John? Did you mean what you said? Are you sure that it’s all right? Rosie thinking I’m her father? Because she is still so young that she can easily be taught that I’m not her-“

“Sherlock. Stop. I did mean it because I think, if I’m planning on spending the rest of my life with you- that is if you’ll have me, I mean. God. That sounded fucking self-centered for me to just assume-“

“If you really intend that, John, I expect a marriage proposal. We can’t live in sin the rest of our lives, I have a reputation to maintain. What would the neighbors think?”

“God, yes- but I’ll try and surprise you with it-“

“John. John, I was joking. I don’t _actually_ expect you to marry me.”

“Well, I wasn’t joking about it, Sherlock.”

“…”

“…”

“I. That’s. Um. Very well.”

“Come here. I love you, you daft sod. But Rosie. Yeah. If I plan on spending the rest of my life with you, then Rosie will have two dads. I can’t imagine anyone better for her. You already act like a father to her anyway…”

* * *

 

Rosie trotted into the sitting room, triumphantly clutching her doll, excited to go and eat breakfast downstairs, but her daddies weren’t ready. They were touching faces again and didn’t even notice her. Rosie watched, bouncing on her toes as she waited for them to stop.

Except they weren’t. This was taking forever. Daddy was holding fluffy daddy’s face with both his hands and they both looked like they were in pain. If it hurt, then they should stop doing it. That’s what her daddies had taught her ages ago. Rosie huffed. She was hungry. She was hurt they were ignoring her. And she was very annoyed.

* * *

 

“Rosie! Don’t throw your dolls!”

“Daaa-deeee!”

“No! No throwing! See? I told you she copies everything you do.”

“That’s not true. I’ve never thrown that particular doll, John.”

“…”

“…”

“Get the fuck downstairs, Sherlock.”

* * *

 

They ate breakfast in the little café downstairs, the one with all the glass windows and lots of people coming and going. Rosie loved the café. It smelled nice and she watched the crowd moving through more than she ate, fascinated by the rush everyone seemed to be in. She sat on fluffy daddy’s lap, eating bacon from his plate, with daddy sitting on the other side of the booth across from them. There was no sippy cup for her but Rosie drank her milk through a little straw, fluffy daddy holding it for her so she didn’t spill. She kicked her feet happily, banging her heels against the seat, while her daddies held hands on the table.

A few people came to their table, talking to her daddies, and Rosie ignored them because they were boring- until one of them tried touching her. A smiling man reached down to pat her on the head and she smacked his hand away, rapidly swatting until he moved it, grunting. Daddy apologized to the man but fluffy daddy kissed the top of Rosie’s head and murmured that she’d been a good girl. He handed her another piece of bacon and gave daddy an innocent look when he glared at them both.

* * *

 

They nipped back upstairs to the flat, which still smelled strongly of smoke, to bundle up. Rosie had to be coaxed out of her dress by fluffy daddy, with promises that she could put it back on later, but she still pouted while she was dressed in a bulky snowsuit which seemed to be new. It was a glaring shade of pink that Rosie decided she liked, stroking her fingers over the spongy material while daddy wrapped a scarf around her neck and slipped on her hat and mittens.

They took a walk through the city, the crowds surging around them and Rosie clung to daddy’s hand so they wouldn’t get separated, watching everyone suspiciously. They were too loud, moved too fast, were just…too much. She felt better when they got to the park because there weren’t many people there, and she eagerly trotted ahead of her daddies, her cheeks stinging from the cold and lungs burning from the freezing air.

She swiped her hands through the snow still on the ground, flinging it up into the air and shouting when it fell back down, raining on top of her head. She stomped through the snow, hopping as high as she could, while her daddies trailed behind her, holding hands and being boring.

Rosie pretended she was a snow princess who could make snow appear from her hands like she’d seen in a cartoon, and spent a great deal of time gathering handfuls of snow and then tossing them dramatically, feeling very elegant as she imagined her powers growing. She wished she could make a snowman friend appear who would sing to her.

Snow Princesses didn’t wear ugly hats so Rosie pulled hers off and left it lying on the ground. Her hair blew in the wind and made her feel even more like a princess, like when the princes in the cartoon had made her snow castle. Except, well…her neck was getting very cold. Even her scalp tingled from the freezing wind, and when she threw a handful of snow into the air to try and make her own castle, pretending it glittered from her mitten-covered fingertips, it fell back down on her head, shockingly icy and making her yelp.

Daddy shouted at her, picking her hat off the ground and jogging towards her. Rosie threw a few handfuls of snow at him, but her snow powers had no effect on daddy, who yanked the hat down over her head, squashing her hair. He fixed it on her head, sternly warning her what would happen if she took it off again.

Rosie jerked away from him, pouting, and went off to grow her snow powers so that one day, daddy wouldn’t make her wear ugly hats.

* * *

 

They ate lunch in a café that Rosie remembered because it had a pretty Christmas tree in the corner that fluffy daddy took her to see while they waited for their food. He lifted her up so she could look at the ornaments and delicately touched the glowing star at the very top. They sat at a booth near the foggy windows and daddy helped her draw hearts and smiley faces in the condensation. Rosie liked the way her finger sounded when it squeaked over the window and she drew zigzagging patterns, pressing down hard, just to hear it while her daddies talked about boring things. Like they always did.

Daddy fed her a warm, buttered piece of flaky bread and they shared a hot chocolate. Rosie ate everything, sipping the chocolate when daddy held it up for her, and she was perfectly happy, and warm. Her snowsuit cuddled her and was as soft as a blanket. She slumped in the booth, sighing tiredly, and fought to keep her eyes open because they kept wanting to close no matter what she did. The steady drone of her daddies talking was comforting and she knew she was perfectly safe with them, even in the crowded café, and if she did go to sleep, she knew they wouldn’t forget about her and leave her behind.

The last thing Rosie remembered before daddy scooped her up from the booth was him touching his face to fluffy daddy’s again, and then they were going back out into the cold. By then, Rosie was already asleep.

* * *

 

“Don’t get dirty, love. We’re going to a ballet later.”

Rosie hopped up and down in excitement when daddy put her back in her favorite purple dress, letting fluffy daddy tie her hair with a ribbon, and then showed her new shoes she could wear.

“We’re going to a very posh place, Rosie.” Daddy said quietly as he buckled her into the shoes. They were comfortable and didn’t pinch her feet, but Rosie wasn’t sure she liked them. No matter how shiny they were, they were still plain black.

“Daddy- well, your other daddy…papa? Hm. We’ll ask him later what he wants to be called. Okay? Just for now, your daddy…he’s very excited about this. He’s bought us these tickets a long time ago, just for you and I think we’ll like it, but we’ll behave ourselves. Won’t we? Me and you? We’ll behave because we love daddy, don’t we?”

Rosie didn’t really understand what daddy meant. She was always good. But she did love daddy- both her daddies- so she nodded and daddy kissed her cheek.

“That’s my good girl.”

* * *

 

“Ball-et.”

“Baaaalll….aaaate.”

“Ball- et.”

“Bbaaallll…. _aaaaaa_!”

“That’s close enough.” Fluffy daddy chuckled. He held Rosie on his lap as she twisted and turned, looking all around them at the strange place they were in. They were in a huge room, with lots and lots of plush red seats and lots and lots of people. The crowd murmured, and it seemed like they were all waiting for something, but Rosie didn’t know what. The room was very pretty, with big white columns and lots of gold things. Daddy pointed at the ceiling and Rosie threw her head back, narrowly missing fluffy daddy’s nose.

“Ohhh!”

The ceiling was covered with a picture, which looked like the stars at night, made with dark purples and blacks and shiny white stars. Rosie squirmed in fluffy daddy’s lap so she could see it better- but just at that moment, there was a surging sound of music. It sounded like what fluffy daddy listened to sometimes and what he played for Rosie during nap time, and the lights went out. Rosie yelled- both her daddies hushed her quickly- but it wasn’t dark for long, as a light appeared on the stage. They pointed, whispering that she was okay, and to watch so Rosie looked at the stage as the music began, sweet and so loud that she could feel it through her chest.

The curtain came up and dancers whirled onto the stage.

Rosie forgot that she’d been afraid and stared in wonder. She was completely entranced and couldn’t take her eyes off the stage, not even to make sure that her daddies were seeing what she was seeing.

It was so beautiful.

There was an entire scene on the stage, with a house and children, a huge Christmas tree, and lots of people dancing around. Snow lightly fell from the ceiling even though they were inside, gathering on the stage and being swept around as the people danced through it. The women were so lovely in their strange dresses which stuck straight out from their waists, and they danced on the very tips of their toes looking so elegant as they curved their arms above their heads.

Rosie scooted to the very edge of fluffy daddy’s lap, grabbing the back of the seat in front of her to hold her there, but daddy loosened her hands, murmuring an apology to the person in it, and let Rosie hold his hand while she watched.

Rosie had never seen anything so pretty in all her life.

Some parts were scary, like when the rats ran onto the stage and attacked the girl, and then the Rat King was there, swinging a sword and Rosie knew the girl was about to die- then the prince arrived and saved her. Rosie babbled excitedly and pointed at the stage so her daddies would see, and they whispered that yes, we see, sssh, darling, watch the baaallllll…..aaaaaaa.

More snow fell from the ceiling as the prince took the girl in a golden sleigh to a picturesque land covered in snow. Rosie was so confused. She didn’t understand how everything had changed and where the house had gone and now how there was a land in front of them?…but that was part of the enchantment.

Magical scenes and fairytale dancers. Dancing. Spinning. Lifts. Music. Snow. Lights.

Rosie couldn’t contain herself, bouncing in fluffy daddy’s lap as much as he’d let her and reaching for daddy so he would look, so he would see-

By the time it was over and everyone was clapping, Rosie was tired from all the excitement. She clapped along with her daddies but as the crowd began moving towards the exits, she reached for daddy, resting her head on his shoulder.

* * *

 

It had been such a long day and she was so tired that Rosie stared crying when daddy put her in her pajamas back at the flat. She rubbed her eyes, just wanting to sleep, but he wouldn’t leave her alone.

“I know, darling. I know. You’re tired, aren’t you? Give me that arm, love- into the sleeve. It’s all right. We’re going to bed. Right now.”

Rosie screwed up her face and cried as he snapped the front of her pajamas closed and then snuggled her into bed. He pressed her penguin so there was a ceiling-ful of stars, and sat beside her, murmuring a story about a nutcracker and rats while he rubbed her head the way she loved. From her forehead back to the crown, slowly, over and over.

Rosie settled, sniffling, and let daddy lull her to sleep, clutching her doll and staring blearily up at the stars until her eyes couldn’t stay open any longer.

* * *

 

“That was a great idea, the ballet, Sherlock. She loved that.”

“I hoped she would. She seems to like the music I play for her during naptime, and you’ve seen her dancing around…The Nutcracker seemed like a perfect evening.”

“It was. I think she saw some of a ballet when Mrs. Hudson was keeping her, but didn’t know what it was. Anything that has a sparkly dress and pretty music and she’ll be in love. Tonight was perfect.”

“…I think today was perfect too.”

“Me too. And…if you’ll come to bed with me, I’ll show you how we can make it even more perfect.”

“John Watson, are you flirting with me?”

“Always, love. Always.”


	25. Day 25- Christmas/Exchanging Gifts

Every once in a while, proof that John was an old man hit him in the face like a roundhouse kick to the jaw with a steel-toed boot. When he and Sherlock had sex, for example, and 30 minutes after the fact Sherlock was already hard again and shifting in a very telling way, while John’s spirit was willing, more than willing actually, but his flesh was weak. Weak and _old_. Not that he minded getting Sherlock off again- as if that were a fucking hardship- but it did less to remind him that Sherlock was a few years younger than it did to remind John he was a few years older.

Old and weak with a bad back.

And it wasn’t just getting shown up in the bedroom by his 5-years-younger-than-you boyfriend that made John feel old (the boyfriend who, by the way, made the loveliest sounds when John tossed him off for the second time, because the last thing John ever wanted to do was make Sherlock embarrassed of his arousal and even if that wasn’t the case- when Sherlock got an erection, John wanted to damn well take care of it, thank you very much). He was just old. He had more grey hairs than he used to. He thought he was going a bit flabby around the middle too, and when he went to the gym to fix the problem it was always full of bright young things with rippling muscles and abs. They grunted and lifted and sweated while John plodded determinedly through his own workout, feeling ancient next to their tight, Adonis-like bodies. Then, there was the fact that he wasn’t able to run as much, and it took him a while longer to get up in the mornings, working the kinks out of his back.

Speaking of his back...

John puffed, straining to move the furniture in the sitting room, his back twinging even though he was lifting with his legs. But those were hurting too, his knees popping and joints creaking. John knew he was being dramatic but a few years ago he wouldn’t have even broken a sweat moving a few pieces of furniture around. It wasn’t helped by the fact that he was trying to be quiet about it, and quick, so he could surprise Sherlock. He’d sent him upstairs a few minutes ago to put Rosie to bed and Sherlock had given John a Look, letting him know he suspected something but hadn’t worked out exactly what John was up to yet.

Which was thrilling.

When he was able to surprise Sherlock sodding Holmes, John knew he had done a good job.

It wasn’t much, what he had planned, but John was a bit proud he’d managed to keep this from him. It was his Christmas present to Sherlock, and John stood back and looked at the sitting room with a critical eye. The furniture was pushed back as neatly as possible, the fire crackled and spit in the fireplace, and the entire room was lit with soft lights from the Christmas tree. Perfect. John tugged the large rug a bit to even it up because he wanted everything just so, and checked to make sure the playlist was ready. It was.

John nodded, pleased, and stood to the side, hands clasped behind his back, waiting on Sherlock to come back down and see what he’d done. Then he realized something that he should have thought of all along.

This had been a fucking _horrible_ idea.

John’s stomach dropped like lead as he realized what a fuck up he’d done with this whole thing. He should have just fucking bought Sherlock a gift and not tried to be stupid and romantic about it. Sherlock had always sneered at John’s feeble attempts at romance with his girlfriends in the past and while John could attribute some of that to Sherlock’s hatred of any woman who had been interested in John, he was sure that he probably actually was crap at being sentimental. Mary had thought he was, anyway, laughing and kissing his cheek, but asking him to please never do it again the few times he’d tried.

If Sherlock didn’t outright laugh at John over this, teasing him about his frail attempt at being mawkish, then he would go along with John just to appease him. That would be worse than laughter, because all the while, during the whole evening, Sherlock would be quietly disappointed and doing his best to hide it. But they would both know, neither wanting to say anything about it though.

Fucking hell.

This was their first Christmas together, as a couple, and John should have done more. Sherlock deserved more. He deserved better than what John could give him.

John sighed, slumping, and thought about hurrying to put the furniture back. He could pretend he’d made a mistake and postpone giving Sherlock his gift until later, until he had time to go out to the shops tomorrow and find something Sherlock would like. It was a good plan, better than the one he’d thought up last week anyway.

But John had just reached for the armchair, bracing himself to drag it back into place, when he heard Sherlock’s step coming down the stairs, tripping lightly, eager to find out what John was giving him.

There was nothing for it. John would just have to brazen it out and face his embarrassment and Sherlock’s polite letdown, knowing he’d ruined Christmas for Sherlock this year.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

* * *

_Earlier that morning..._

Running.

Running.

Running.

Wind in his hair. Whipping across his face and bringing tears to his eyes. His lungs expanded as he pushed more air into them, gaining momentum, and his legs were pumping as fast as he could make them. He’d forgotten what he was running after in the first place- criminal, cab, for his life- but he heard movement behind him. There was a beat of fear before he heard the comforting sounds of John breathing. John had a very distinct way of breathing when he ran- a quick pant-pant step, pant-pant step, pant-pant step, that Sherlock would always know.

If John were running behind him, that meant he wasn’t alone, so whatever they were both running towards would be okay. They would survive it together. Sherlock felt his mouth curving into a satisfied smile and he reached back, trying to take John’s hand and let him know everything would be all right…

He tipped sideways unexpectedly, letting out a tiny cry, feet flying from under him, pitching him over and over until he was dizzy and disoriented. When his body finally righted itself, he couldn’t see anything. It was dark all around him, without the smallest sliver of light, but he could feel himself cradled in a multitude of unseen hands. There were hands everywhere. Touching him. Brushing against his skin. Moving through his hair.

Sherlock breathed out a light moan and relaxed. He wasn’t afraid. The touch was new, yet familiar at the same time. He tried to turn, but he could never glimpse the hands or see the person’s face they belonged to, even though he already knew who it was. The scent of his soap was in the air. The clean, musky smell of his skin which was always concentrated after he’d slept, sweaty but not unpleasant. Sherlock had sucked that taste from him more than once, orienting himself with it and cataloging it as John.

John.

John.

John.

John was everywhere, all around Sherlock, surrounding him in a tight circle. His hands were at Sherlock’s hips and neck and back. Hands between his legs, stroking at his cock and testicles. Grabbing his arse. Touching his cheek and trailing down his chest and over his nipples because John loved to make Sherlock gasp with pleasure in any way he could. Sherlock didn’t disappoint him, uttering the requisite gasp and arching into the contact, and the hands petted him faster, becoming eager when they realized he was aware of them and enjoying their attentions. As if he would ever not enjoy something John did to him.

“John.” Sherlock’s lips formed his name, barely above a whisper because it seemed hard to speak past the drugging pleasure of having John touching him everywhere. The hands fell away, fluttering and then gone, some of them disappearing while others focused their attentions, the ones at his hips and between his legs. There were kisses to his shoulders and neck. A delicate kiss placed against his lips, there and gone before Sherlock could even respond. He made a moue of disappointment and heard John, still unseen, laugh quietly. He came back to kiss Sherlock again, lingering until Sherlock could properly taste him on his lips. Then John was gone again, but there were hands on the ticklish bends of Sherlock’s legs, hands between his legs, at the juncture of his thighs, where he was already hard and leaking-

“Oh!” Sherlock arched again at the uninhibited feel of John’s mouth around his cock and it felt perfect and wet and-

“Oh!” It felt different than it had before. Sherlock’s body seemed slow to respond even while his nerve endings lit up, rapidly blinking lights and flashes because John was doing lovely things between his legs. Sherlock loved the way that sounded. John between his legs. It was wickedly suggestive. John was really very, very skillful at doing things between Sherlock’s legs. He was putting his mouth all over Sherlock’s cock which felt so nice-

Sherlock hissed, trying to move but his body felt as if he were fighting through sludge, so he stopped. It didn’t matter. John would take care of him even if he couldn’t move.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, love.”

Sherlock wanted to tell John he was welcome, but all that came out was a rough moan and then John’s mouth was back on his cock again.

He hadn’t been lying. Really. John was very good at this. And Sherlock didn’t think that was just because no one had ever sucked his cock before and that he had no one to compare John with. He was sure that if he’s had loads of people who had sucked his cock in the past to compare John’s technique with, he would still think John was the best.

“You really don’t need to talk while I’m doing this.” John sounded slightly annoyed now and Sherlock knew he’d let his mind wander.

“M’sorry.” He managed. “Won’t ever let anyone else...suck m’cock...m’kay?”

“You better not.” Came John’s dark reply and then he licked at Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock decided he would take John’s advice and stop talking.

He loved the feel of John’s mouth. He moaned, reaching down to run his fingers through John’s short hair, the strands silky and a little oily from sleep. He could feel John’s bobbing movements while he touched his head. That felt naughty and since this was a dream, and Sherlock thought dream John wouldn’t care, when he next slid his fingers through John’s hair, he grasped at it and _pulled_.

John made a surprised noise around his cock, more of a moan than a gasp of pain, and Sherlock let go, just so he could do it again and John would make that noise once more. He didn’t try and push John down on his cock, he wasn’t a barbarian even if this was a dream, but he liked the feeling of control grabbing at John’s hair gave him, without actually using it. He kept his grip on him and John huffed through his nose, one of his hands abruptly leaving Sherlock’s hip, making him feel cold with loss, but John distracted him by doing something clever with his tongue. Sherlock forgot about where it could have gone.

His orgasm was protracted, slowly pulled from his body like taffy, and he groaned, letting go of John’s hair and reaching to grab at his pillow, twisting as his orgasm unwound through his body. His hips twitched up, once, twice, and then he was coming, spilling himself in John’s mouth which swallowed around him, making him shudder from sensitivity.

Sherlock opened his eyes, looking for John, and found himself staring up at his bedroom ceiling in confusion. His legs were still shaking from his orgasm, and for a brief moment he thought he had actually dreamed the entire encounter and came in his sleep- then, beneath the covers, hands were on his body, running up his chest, moving over Sherlock and John popped his head from under the covers. He looked rumpled and sweaty and very proud of himself, pecking Sherlock on the cheek.

“Merry Christmas, love.”

* * *

 

“Look, Rosie! They’re for you, sweetheart!”

Rosie stared at the prettily wrapped packages which had somehow appeared beneath their Christmas tree during the night. It was scary. She didn’t know what to make of it. Where had they come from? Who had put them there? How did her daddies know they were for her?

She eyed the boxes with deep suspicion, clinging to daddy’s leg. Some were bigger than others, and some very small and oddly shaped. She didn’t know what they were and she didn’t know where they had came from, and she didn’t want to go near them or touch them.

No, thank you.

“Come here, darling.” Fluffy daddy sat on the floor near the weird packages and motioned her over, but Rosie hesitated. She looked from fluffy daddy’s face to the boxes around him, and back again.

No.

She didn’t move until daddy took a step closer, forcing her to shuffle after him, still clinging to his jeans, until they were near enough for fluffy daddy to scoop her up and plop her on his lap. Rosie felt much safer inspecting the odd things from fluffy daddy’s lap. His arm was wrapped around her middle and she knew he would protect her if something scary sprang out of them. She jumped when he poked a hole in one of the wrappings with his finger, tearing the paper with a loud noise, showing Rosie how it was done. She stuck out her hand, trying, but her nerve failed her before she touched the paper. She shrieked, yanking her hand back, but fluffy daddy was patient. He gently took her hand in his, pulling it closer to the box and they opened it together. The paper fell away from what was beneath it, and Rosie giggled in delight.

It was a little chair. It was just like the ones her daddies sat in all the time but this one, daddy said, was for Rosie. Special. Just for her.

Her chair was made of soft brown material and perfectly small, just the right size for her. Daddy pulled it away from the tree and sat it between their chairs and Rosie scrambled after him, trying to sit in it before he’d even put it back down. She threw herself in it, bouncing, feeling very big and important because now she had her own chair. She liked where it was, between her daddies. She couldn’t wait to sit and drink from her sippy cup here, just like her daddies did with their tea.

She crawled out of the chair and trotted to the kitchen, ignoring her daddies calling to her, and reached for her sippy cup. It was still on the table, too high for her to reach, and she grunted in distress, looking back for help.

“Do you want some more water, love?” Daddy was already there. He gave her the cup and Rosie took it back to the sitting room, back to her chair, and climbed up on it. She took a deep sip from the cup, wiggling her feet happily, feeling very adult.

“I think she likes it.”

“Of course she does. I knew she would.”

“Prat.”

Rosie was so happy with her chair that she wanted to sit in it the rest of the morning- but her daddies said there were more presents for her.

More!

Rosie excitedly ran back to the tree, throwing herself into fluffy daddy’s lap, expecting to be held- but he suddenly grunted in pain, curling over and quickly moving her off him-

“ _Fuh_ -! Oh...god…”

Rosie didn’t know what was wrong. She tried to crawl back into his lap, but Daddy plucked her up instead, laughing. When he did Rosie watched, confused, as fluffy daddy rolled slightly to the left, curling further in on himself, until his forehead touched the floor, breathing harshly, a hand between his legs. What was wrong with him?

“Can’t believe. You’re laughing. At me. John.”

“Sorry, love, but little knees hurt, don’t they? You’re never expecting it to happen- til _bam_. Suddenly it does.”

“Oh, god…you have no idea.” Fluffy daddy sat up, whooshing out deep breaths, eyes closed. “ _Oh, my god_.”

“Actually, I do. Remember last month when she jumped onto my lap- feet first- from the sofa because _you_ taught her how to do it? Because I remember, Sherlock. Didn’t think I’d ever function again after that one.” He jiggled Rosie, patting her back while the two of them watched fluffy daddy writhe on the floor some more.

“You’re not actually hurt are you?” Daddy asked, sounding worried, but fluffy daddy shook his head.

“No. Just. I need a minute.”

“Want me to get you some ice?”

“No.” Fluffy daddy grunted, and daddy walked himself and Rosie over and he held her while he petted fluffy daddy’s fluffy hair.

“I’m sorry, love. I’m sorry I laughed.”

“Don’t be. It’s fine. It was rather…” He glanced up at Rosie and daddy, both staring down at him avidly, his hand still between his legs, and suddenly both her daddies were giggling, throwing their heads back and laughing. Daddy went to his knees in front of fluffy daddy and kissed his cheek while they laughed, and Rosie reached for him whining.

“God...I can’t hold her right now, John.” Fluffy daddy said, shaking his head. “Go and get her chair, she can sit there for a while. I think I'll die if she sits in my lap right now.”

Daddy was still giggling when he plopped Rosie in her little chair and towed her over to the Christmas tree.

“Let’s give daddy a little break. Okay, love? Give him some time to recover.”

Rosie didn’t know what he was talking about, but since both her daddies seemed happy again, even if fluffy daddy held himself oddly, she knew everything was all right.

* * *

 

Rosie spun around the room, tiara perched on her head and her new sparkly wand in her hand, a fairy princess casting a spell over all that she saw. When she pressed a button on the wand, it lit up and played music, and so she pretended that flowers were blooming everywhere she pointed it, and sparkles flying and butterflies all around her. She pranced past her daddies who were sat on the floor still busy opening things. She was too busy with her new toys to care what they were doing. It was probably boring anyway. Especially compared to being a fairy princess bringing spring back to the sitting room. They would thank her for it later.

* * *

 

“What’s this?” John held up the brochure he’d just unwrapped from a long, slim box and Sherlock fidgeted anxiously.

“It’s a cooking class. Well. Not just a cooking class. A, um, couples cooking class. We can go together- of course we don’t have to, if you’d rather not- but this one teaches some of the more advanced techniques which. I don’t think you’re a bad cook. Never meant to imply that. Far from it actually. Better than me. However you mentioned a few months ago that you’d like to try expanding your repertoire but didn’t know how and the tutorials on YouTube made you feel stupid. And since Rosie needs proper nutrition, I thought-”

John cut off Sherlock’s nervous rambling by leaning over and kissing him. “Thank you. I love it.” He smiled as Rosie twirled past them. “So you’re really planning on going with me?”

“Well. If you want me to. I’ll understand if you don’t-”

John kissed Sherlock into silence again. “I’d love it.”

Sherlock’s cheeks were pretty and pink after their kiss was over, and so John had to kiss both of those as well. He felt so damn happy. He was having a wonderful Christmas morning with his daughter and Sherlock- his family. They’d had a good breakfast, they were having a good dinner later, and then tonight...he’d give Sherlock his present. He grinned while Sherlock reached behind the tree where he had hidden something else.

“This is for you as well.” He handed the present to John. “Before you open it,” He began when John reached to rip the paper, “it’s a ridiculous present and stupidly sentimental. You’ll probably hate it. In my defense, it seemed like a good idea at the time, though, and Molly thought so too, which probably should have told me it wasn’t, but…” He waved a hand, motioning John to open it which he did with some trepidation.

It was a picture frame. An ornate black one with scrolling swirls all around the perimeter in elegant arrangements. The weight of it alone let John knew it had been expensive, and the picture in it was…

John squinted at it. “Is that a-”

“It’s a heart. My heart, actually.”

John glanced up at Sherlock, not knowing what to say, and Sherlock began rambling again.

“Radiologist at Bart’s owed me a favor. Took the scans and then I used a computer program to outline the shape and colorize for contrast. Molly helped somewhat with the arrangement. There were different versions on my laptop but I liked this one the best because you can clearly see the heart- _my_ heart, I mean. I realize that people figuratively say they have given someone their heart, which, while an inane comment in and of itself, is an impossible gesture because you cannot physically give someone your heart without killing yourself- which would defeat the purpose of giving your heart to the person you love, wouldn’t it?”

John ran a finger over the outline of Sherlock’s heart, disquieted, and Sherlock kept talking.

“I assumed you would rather have this instead of my actual heart preserved in a jar, because then you would only have my heart but not me. I think you like me enough to want to keep me alive. That was a joke. Not a very good one I guess. So. Well. I want you to have me, and my heart. Because until you’re actually in love you don’t...I didn’t understand what it meant to give someone your heart because it’s physically impossible but I love you and you have the uncanny ability to make my heart do very concerning things. I thought I may have an atrial flutter for a while because my heart races when I’m near you- but then it skips beats and feels funny and…” Sherlock flicked a hand in front of his chest. “If something happened to you, John, I think my heart would stop. That’s literally, not figuratively. It would die with you. You possess my heart. Already. Somehow. Ridiculous. It may be lodged in my chest and still be keeping me alive, but it’s yours. I wanted you to have it.”

John realized he was gripping the frame tightly in his hands, leaving ridges on his palms from the metal scrolls, and loosened his touch, looking back down at the outlined view of Sherlock’s heart. His literal heart, given to John and entrusted to him to keep safe.

The weight of that gesture was overwhelming because John knew he would fail. He would break Sherlock’s heart, maybe not even meaning to, but he would because he didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve the man sitting on the floor in front of him, the man who had kissed him that morning, stood beside him in the loo while they brushed their teeth, the man who had buggered off to parts unknown in the flat so John would be forced to fix breakfast. The man John wanted to spend the rest of his life with. Who he was trying to be worthy of and earn the right to actually deserve.

Which was exactly what he would do, John decided. He clutched the picture to him, not caring if he looked pathetic, and vowed that he would live up to every expectation Sherlock had for him, even the most lofty ones, because Sherlock, for some unknown reason, thought John was worth his time. Worth his love. Worth his heart.

“Do you...like it?” Sherlock asked hesitantly, worried, and John scrubbed at his eyes, sniffing deeply.

“It’s perfect. I love it.” He said truthfully, giving Sherlock a rather wobbly smile, and Sherlock smiled at him.

When John had got control of himself- and Sherlock was courteous enough to give John space, playing with Rosie while John stared at his present- he kissed Sherlock again. They helped each other up from the floor, both groaning when their knees popped. Sherlock hadn’t said anything about his lack of present from John yet, and John did not want him to think he’d forgotten to get him anything.

“Um. Listen. I was planning to give you your present tonight. If that’s okay?”

An eyebrow went up, intrigued, and John stuttered, trying to explain.

“No, no! It’s not...it’s not anything...like that.” He lowered his voice so Rosie wouldn’t hear. “It’s nothing sexual or...it’s just. Something else.”

* * *

 

John listened to Sherlock coming down the stairs and knew he’d fucked this up. Sherlock had given John his heart this morning- literally- and then tonight John was going to ruin his Christmas. He didn’t know how to be romantic.

Besides, what he had planned for Sherlock wasn’t even romantic. Not by definition anyway. What was poignant about heartbreak and loss? This was their first Christmas together and they’d had a wonderful day. Why the hell was John trying to ruin it by bringing up the past?

Sherlock expected something nice, a present that would show him the depths of John’s love because after giving John his heart, John felt obligated to follow that up with something fantastic. But now that he thought of it, his plan made him look like the biggest cheapskate ever. All he’d done was buy a sodding song off iTunes and then make a playlist with it on repeat a couple dozen times.

Cheap and lazy.

Christ.

* * *

 

Sherlock stopped in the doorway, taking in the altered state of the sitting room. He had heard John moving around down here while he was putting Rosie to bed and reading her a story, but he hadn’t known why John would be moving furniture so late at night. But all the furniture had been moved, recessed into the shadowy corners and clearing away a large swath of empty space. The lights were off, except for the Christmas tree, which gave everything a much more intimate feel. Sherlock was surprised John hadn’t lit candles, but the fireplace was freshly stoked. He supposed that counted.

If John hadn’t told him his present wasn’t sexual, Sherlock would have assumed they would be making love in front of the fireplace. Which. He was not averse to that, now that he had the idea in his head. That was something to tell John about.

Later.

John himself stood nervously near the table, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. Anxious.

His present was _sentimental_ , Sherlock realized. John was usually vaguely upset and uncomfortable over sentimental things and he had overcome that discomfort and planned this. For him.

* * *

 

John wondered if Sherlock had deduced his present yet. His face was inscrutable and it was hard to tell and John wanted to say something passionate. He wanted to have the right words that would sweep Sherlock off his feet and make him know how much he was loved and wanted.

Nothing came to mind.

Nothing.

Staring at Sherlock from across the room, remembering how he had given him his heart, chosen to trust John after all they had been through, and still loved him, John knew there was nothing he could ever say to convey all that he felt. There wasn’t. So the only thing he could really say was-

“Dance with me?”

* * *

 

_Oh_.

Sherlock knew his eyes must have lit up or something of his excitement must have shown on his face, because all of the tension in John’s body suddenly went out in a rush. He beamed at Sherlock from across the room and reached behind him to turn the music on. Sherlock met him in the middle of the wide space as the first bars of music tinkled through the room. He didn’t recognize the composition and tilted his head to the side, listening.

“It’s from _The Snow Queen_.” John explained. “The ballet performance. It’s the names Molly-”

“I remember the story.” Sherlock said and John nodded.

“Right. Um. Well, this one is called “Reunion” and it’s where Gerda and Kay are finally reunited at the end and they…”

“They what?”

John smiled, looking away, and _oh_. This was going to be _very_ sentimental because John was _extremely_ uncomfortable.

Sherlock couldn’t wait.

“After everything they’ve been through, they’re finally together. So they go back home, to their real home, I mean. And they...they live happily ever after.”

* * *

 

“Is that what will happen to us?” Sherlock whispered his question to John as they began to move around the room, stepping to the music. John kept his posture rigid like Sherlock had taught him, holding one hand out and the other around his waist, and Sherlock was letting him lead, letting John guide him around the room. His palms were sweaty and John wondered if Sherlock could tell.

Well, of course he could. He was Sherlock Holmes. But he didn’t act like it bothered him, holding John’s hand tightly, a small smile playing on his lips.

“God, I hope so.” John said fervently, and Sherlock made a small noise, dipping his head and kissing him, dropping his form so could cup John’s face and deepen the kiss. It could have led somewhere easily. John could feel the tension in Sherlock’s body and god knew he’d love to take him to bed, but they hadn’t danced through the whole song yet. Sherlock deserved a dance. John _wanted_ to dance with him.

“Dance with me?” John pulled back enough to murmur against Sherlock’s lips, taking his hand from his face and putting them back in position again.

“Always.”

* * *

 

The music was a waltz but it was a quicker tempo than the one he and Mary had danced to at the wedding. John had thought it was fitting though because life had always moved quicker for himself and Sherlock. And it just meant there were more turns, faster steps, giggling when one of them (usually John) messed up.

They danced until the playlist ended, and Sherlock restarted it. They began again, around the room, and John had been nervous to dance with Mary at the wedding, dreading the whole thing and relieved when it was over. He didn’t want his dance with Sherlock to stop.

By the end, it was less of a waltz and more of a swaying embrace, their arms around each other, Sherlock’s forehead against John’s, breaths mingling and eyes closed, enjoying the love they shared.

Together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did take inspiration for their waltz from the composition "Reunion" which is from The Snow Queen album by Tristan Moore. I haven't been able to find a copy on YouTube, but it is on iTunes if you're interested.


	26. Day 26- Foggy Breaths

“Smile.”

“I _am_ smiling.”

“No. No, Sherlock, that is definitely not a smile. That’s a...that looks like you’re in pain. I think you made that face yesterday when Rosie kneed you in the bollocks.”

“That’s because I _am_ in pain, John.” Sherlock dropped all pretense of trying to smile and scowled, keeping his voice lowered so the people in the next room wouldn’t be able to hear him. He moved closer to John in the kitchen, barely moving his lips. “There are _people_ in our flat-”

“They’re our friends-”

“-rudely invading our privacy for the next few hours. Eating our food. Talking. Being loud. Handing Rosie amongst them like a party favor and I don’t want them here.” Sherlock finished, wondering why John was smiling at him so fondly. Maybe John’s smile had frozen there, like Mummy had always told Sherlock when he was small: “If you keeping making that face, it will freeze that way.”

Sherlock was an adult now and he knew that it was medically impossible for one’s face to freeze in a certain expression. Unless that expression was made as they died and then, the muscles could occasionally lock in place with the help of rigor mortis.

But John wasn’t dead. The smile on his face, though, hadn’t wavered for a solid hour. Sherlock was starting to suspect.

It was fine,though, if John’s face had frozen that way. In a smile. It was a very pretty smile.

“I know you don’t want them here, but they are your parents.” John reminded him, as if he needed reminding. Sherlock had known they were his parents since he was born and he had been trying to forget that for just as long. His parents were always embarrassing him. They made it a hobby. “They were going to come for a visit eventually. It’s the holidays.”

Sherlock grimaced and looked away because John was right. He’d known he couldn’t put it off forever. He’d hoped though.

“And...okay. I do wish they hadn’t brought your brother,” John admitted, “but...we’ll manage. And our friends wanted to see us- Molly brought us gifts on her way, and Greg brought good wine.”

“There’s not enough wine in the whole flat to make this afternoon agreeable.”

“Mm. Maybe not.” John took Sherlock’s hand and some of the tension went out of him at the gesture. He grasped John’s hand as hard as he could, as if it were a lifeline. “But we’ll face them together, won’t we?” John asked and Sherlock huffed, letting his head fall forward to rest against John’s forehead.

“Yes. We will.”

* * *

 

“I’m so happy to see Sherlock with someone, John.” Mummy trilled as she fed Rosie a chocolate biscuit, smiling at John sat beside her who was watching Rosie’s biscuit intake warily. He had tried to stop her because Rosie would eat biscuits by the handful if she were allowed- but Sherlock’s mother insisted that it was the grandmother’s right to spoil their grandchildren with sweets. She had then plopped Rosie on her lap and given her a biscuit. Then another. And another. Then a few more.

John had been so surprised, not knowing what to say, that he hadn’t said anything. Because it was sweet, gratifying, that Sherlock’s mother would count Rosie as her grandchild so easily. Accepting her and loving her, wanting to dote on her. How could John refuse?

It made him stupidly happy for some reason.

* * *

 

Rosie tucked into her fifth biscuit in the last half hour, stuffing it in her mouth, staring at daddy the whole time. She was waiting for him to take it away from her. This was never allowed. She never got as many biscuits as she wanted.

The woman whose lap she was sitting on seemed to have some sort of power over daddy though. And fluffy daddy too. And Rosie loved chocolate biscuits.

The woman handed her another biscuit and Rosie cooed, happy. Chocolate was smeared around her mouth and she smacked her lips as she ate, leaning back against the woman, content.

Biscuits were so delicious.

* * *

 

John gave Mummy a strained smile, eyes irresistibly sliding over to where Sherlock was sat in his chair. He seemed to have forcibly retreated into his Mind Palace and hadn’t opened his eyes or moved for the last 15 minutes. John cleared his throat. Suppose facing everyone together had gone right out the fucking window.

“Oh. Well. Thanks. I’m...glad he’s with someone too. Or, I mean. With me.”

Mummy chuckled, patting John’s cheek. “You’re so sweet. Sherlock’s lucky to have you, and I think he knows it. You know, he’s never actually had a boyfriend.”

John looked over to Sherlock and the only sign that he was aware of them and their conversation was a deep, red flush which slowly worked its way up his neck and into his cheeks. His serene expression didn’t change, but John could see the sudden tension in his frame.

“Well. Not a proper one anyway.” Mummy said. “There was that one young man he brought home from school once- what was his name? Sherlock?”

Sherlock ignored her.

Mummy huffed, raising her voice. “Sherlock!”

Sherlock’s eyes remained stubbornly closed.

The conversation in the kitchen quieted, voices tapering off, and Molly popped her head into the sitting room.

“Everything all right in here?”

“It’s fine. Sherlock’s only ignoring me, his mother. The person who gave him life and tender, loving care when he was young. The person who paid for his schooling and sent him to the finest in England for his education, nurturing that big brain of his. His mother, that’s the person he’s ignoring.”

Everyone looked at Sherlock who remained stoically unaffected. John wondered what he was thinking about to distract himself. Had to be something good to be ignoring this many people. John wondered if he were involved in it at all. Probably not, he thought as Mummy handed Rosie another biscuit and she quickly shoved it in her mouth before daddy could take it away from her. Sherlock was probably turning over an old case or trying to solve something he hadn’t in the past. Or maybe crafting and planning the perfect murder and how to get away with it. Considering Sherlock’s aversion to this spontaneous get together, it was probably the latter.

John hoped he wasn’t included in the body count.

The conversation in the kitchen started back up, Molly laughing at something Greg said, while Mycroft lounged between the two rooms, paying attention to both discussions at once, sipping his tea quietly and being unobtrusive which was how John liked him best.

“Well. I don’t know.” Mummy didn’t seem mad, used to being ignored by her sons. She turned back to John with a smile. “Sherlock did bring home a young man from school once. The name’s not important. Victor something or other. Anyway, he stayed with us over the Christmas holiday. Nice young man. Lots of charm and very nice hair. Agreeable. Funny. Sherlock was besotted and I felt so badly for him because the boy said he wasn’t gay.” Mummy rolled her eyes. “Don’t know why he maintained that for so long. He’s married now, I think to some rich American corporate man. Lovely couple. They sent daddy and I a Christmas card a few years ago.”

John made a sound of interest, but he was too busy trying to imagine a teenage Sherlock, tall and gangly, maybe not yet used to the sudden growth spurt he’d gone through the summer before, with curly hair and a wide, innocent face. Christ. John bet he’d been gorgeous. Probably not as curt as he was now too. The sort of attitude that Sherlock exuded had to be cultivated because inwardly, John knew Sherlock was the nicest, warmest, most caring person he had ever known. He just hid it from everyone. Sherlock as a teenager without a prickly attitude developed from years of being the target of people’s abuse, with some innocence of the world left, bright eyes, and an easy smile that John only ever saw directed at either himself or Rosie...

“Do you have any photographs?” He asked suddenly, accidentally cutting Mummy off, and she frowned.

“Of Victor what’s-his-name?”

“No- of Sherlock.”

“Oh!” Mummy laughed. “Yes, of course!” She winked at John knowingly and it was his turn to blush, uncomfortable. Was he that transparent? “I’ll send you a few in the mail when daddy and I go back home after New Year’s. Sherlock’s baby pictures are the cutest- there’s a few I have in mind- but he was the handsomest young man when he was a teenager. Especially in his school uniform.” She winked again, glancing at Sherlock whose face was reddening even more. “I’ll find those and send them to you.”

“Ta.”

“Hasn’t Mycroft promised to take you to dinner?” Sherlock snapped without opening his eyes, startling everyone. “You don’t want to be late.”

“Oh, we have hours to spare, brother mine.” Mycroft replied easily, eyes glinting. He seemed to be relishing Sherlock’s discomfort and made no effort to help change the subject to something less embarrassing. “Besides, Mummy has wanted to meet with John for a while now. They’ve never been properly introduced, yet.”

“There was a reason for that.” Sherlock ground out, and Mycroft snorted into his tea.

“As I was saying, John,” Mummy continued, handily turning the tables and ignoring her sons. “I’m so pleased that Sherlock’s got a proper boyfriend and a baby.” She squeezed Rosie, dropping a little kiss to the top of her head. “A family, just like I’d always hoped he would find.” She dropped her voice to a whisper which still carried around the room. “It made me so happy to hear the two of you were finally together. Sherlock’s been just miserable over you for ages, John, and I told him he needed to stop all this dramatic, gay pining nonsense and to ask you out-“

“Another cup of tea?” Sherlock leapt from his chair in a flurry of limbs, suddenly animated in a desperate effort to make his mother quit talking. John watched as Sherlock quickly poured tea, adding an anxious dash of sugar and milk to the cup, his cheeks still heated.

“Oh, thank you, dear.” Mummy said as Sherlock thrust it into her hand, shifting Rosie so she could hold both at the same time. Rosie made a disgruntled noise, her supply of biscuits threatened, and Sherlock plucked her out of his mother’s lap, cuddling her to his chest.

“That will be something better to do with your mouth than pester John with stories.” He muttered, whirling himself and Rosie around- and almost bumping into Molly as she came from the kitchen.

“Oh! Sorry- that could have ended badly!!” She chucked Rosie under the chin and Rosie immediately reached for her, hoping the supply line of biscuits would be reestablished. Sherlock reluctantly handed her over and Molly jiggled Rosie on her hip. “She’s so precious. Anyway, Happy Christmas, Sherlock!”

“It _was_.” Sherlock muttered dourly, and Molly looked confused.

“Sorry, what?”

“Nothing. Um. Happy Christmas.” He tried a smile, remembering that John wanted him to make an effort, and Molly’s face instantly brightened. Seeing it made Sherlock feel bad for projecting his attitude onto Molly. He liked Molly. She was a good person, indulgent of him and his differences and...she was a friend. She didn’t deserve to have his bad mood taken out on her.

It was just. Parties and noise and people and parents. Everyone arriving unexpectedly and if he had been able to prepare himself, mentally, for a gathering, maybe he would have been fine. But as it was, Sherlock was slowly being driven mad.

It was unfortunate because the day had started off so wonderfully promising.

* * *

 

He and John had gone to bed last night, late, after dancing for what felt like hours in the sitting room. Being held by John, close to him, swaying in the darkness to the sweet music and feeling so loved and wanted and cared for had lulled Sherlock into a safe sense of satisfaction. Even when they were tired and finally turned the music off, holding hands as they walked down the hall to bed, the calmness in Sherlock’s chest hadn’t lessened.

They snuggled against each other beneath the covers, kissing honey sweet and slow, Sherlock cupping John’s cheek as he leaned over him, pressing Sherlock against the bed with his weight and it could have lead somewhere. It would have been easy to deepen the kiss, pull John closer or roll him over and straddle his hips which seemed to drive John wild. They both would have enjoyed it. But the mood was so gentle. Soft. It had never been like that before and Sherlock was loathe to ruin it. So he hadn’t. He and John had kissed, settling side by side, their kisses turning slower and slower until they fell asleep together.

Wonderful.

The best Christmas Sherlock had ever had.

It had reminded Sherlock of a snippet from some movie. He couldn’t remember the name of, but there had been dancing and music and singing, and a song drifted through his head: _“I could have danced all night, I could have danced all night, and still have begged for more…”_

They’d spent a sluggish morning together before Rosie woke up. Brief kisses and a shared shower. John’s arms around his waist as the water kept them warm, kissing the back of Sherlock’s neck and then trailing lower, over his scars while Sherlock trembled. His legs had shaken when John’s mouth skated over his buttocks, hips twitching forward, gasping and John had started to apologize-

“No, I...that wasn’t…” Sherlock blinked water from his eyes, reaching down to where John’s hands were at his hip and settling over them. “It was....good?”

John made a considering sound and Sherlock’s stomach tightened when he felt the first tentative touch of John’s tongue running up and over the crease between his buttocks…

* * *

 

Sherlock blinked at Molly who was looking at him expectantly, and realized he hadn’t heard a word of what she had said.

“I’m sorry I...I was distracted.” He shook his head to clear away any lingering lascivious thoughts, and they scattered, but regathered at the edges of his thoughts, waiting for the chance to overwhelm him again. He gave her an apologetic smile.

“Oh. That’s okay. I was just asking how your first Christmas with John was?”

“We’ve had Christmases together before.” Sherlock reminded her, but Molly shook her head.

“Yes, but this is the first Christmas you are together. As in a couple, you know. That’s always special.”

Sherlock glanced back at John who had his head close to Mummy’s as she whispered to him conspiratorially. Sensing his attention, John looked up and met Sherlock’s eyes, giving him a small smile that warmed Sherlock down to his toes before turning back to his mother.

_“I could have danced all night, I could have danced all night, and still have begged for more…”_

“Yes. It was special.”

* * *

 

A shower wasn’t the best place for experimentation and was hell on John’s knees. Sherlock helped him up, giggling when John winced as the feeling returning to his lower legs. He’d propped John against the wall and set about rubbing soap over his body, lingering and paying special attention between John’s legs, stroking at his cock with a handful of soap and tangling his tongue with John’s. John had been hard, Sherlock just as much, but somehow it was the closeness and intimacy Sherlock loved the most.

Their cocks bumped against each other when they moved and John snickered. Sherlock laughed, pressing his face into John’s shower damp neck and licking the water droplets away. John hissed, letting his head fall back, and abruptly, from one second to the other, Sherlock wanted him. The feeling of relaxation evaporated and Sherlock realized how much he loved John. How much he _wanted_ him.

He’d hastily turned the taps off, bundling John out of the shower against his protestations and leaned him against the sink, then gone to his knees in front of him. John made a surprised noise- Sherlock pressed John’s hips against the edge of the sink, and lowered his mouth to the head of John’s prick.

It was quick and dirty and John’s hands rested on the top of Sherlock’s head the whole time, not pressing, or exerting any force, but there, a constant presence, fingers threaded through his wet hair, while Sherlock bobbed his head and John’s knees shook. John didn’t even need to tell Sherlock he was close, and at the last second, Sherlock pulled away and stroked John through his orgasm, watching the pearly liquid gush in warm, wet pulses over his hand and drip onto the floor between his knees while John moaned. And when John looked down, chest heaving, still startled, Sherlock, who knew visuals were sometimes just as powerful as the act itself, gave him a sly look, still gripping his cock, John’s come on his hand, and licked his lips suggestively.

“Jesus- _fuck_ -”

Before Sherlock could react, John was hauling him up from the floor and pressing him back and back and back until Sherlock tripped and fell onto the bed and John swarmed over him, kissing him and stroking his cock and muttering all sorts of lovely, filthy things at him.

Afterwards, they’d needed to shower again, rushing a bit because Rosie was waking up. Sherlock had allowed himself to dream of breakfast with his two favorite people, and a relaxed lunch...then it had all gone to hell.

* * *

 

Rosie sailed through the air as hands passed her to someone else. Then someone else, and someone else. An endless round of faces that smiled and different sets of hands that held her and people who smelled different. Some good and some bad. People who held her and gave her wet kisses to her cheek and told her she was pretty and didn’t give her a biscuit. Not once. She fussed, screwing up her face, upset, and there was a chorus of noise all around her, everyone “ahhhh-ing.” Then she was flying through the air and daddy held her, settling her in a familiar way against his chest while Rosie whined.

“Oh, go on.”

“One more won’t hurt.”

“Let her have another, John.”

Daddy said something back to them all- then the grey-haired man Rosie thought she remembered was leaning over, giving Rosie a big, goofy grin, and holding up a chocolate biscuit.

Rosie squealed and snatched at it, immediately stuffing some of it in her mouth, and everyone started laughing. Daddy’s chest vibrated against her while he chuckled and Rosie could see fluffy daddy’s face over the heads of the other people, face crinkled in a smile. Rosie didn’t know why they were laughing, but she tucked into her biscuit, happy because all was right in her world again. She tried laughing along with them and sprayed biscuit crumbs everywhere.

* * *

 

“Did you have a good Christmas?”

Greg gave Molly a polite smile, raising his glass to her. “Yeah. Yeah, it was great. Spent some time with the kids. Had the whole last weekend with them without getting one call. They liked all the presents I got them. It was nice. How was yours?”

“Good.” Molly said shortly, and Greg nodded, not knowing what else to say when-

“Greg. Um. I was wondering...if you’re not busy, and with it being the holidays I’m sure you might be...but I was wondering if you’d like to go out for dinner? With me? Sometime?”

“ _Oh_.” Greg’s face fell and he glanced back into the sitting room where everyone was gathered as Mycroft and his parents were leaving. Mycroft was bundling his mother into her coat as she patted Sherlock’s cheek, trying to elicit a promise from him to call her more often. “Um, I’m sorry, really, but I’m actually busy tonight. Really. But. Listen, thanks. I’m really...flattered.”

“Right. That’s great. Thanks!” Molly said cheerfully, and it was so fake they both winced and as Mycroft and his parents moved to the door, Greg decided it was time he left as well.

* * *

 

“Are they gone?”

John straightened from putting Rosie down in her crib, their little darling worn out from all the people and attention, and spared a glance at his other darling who was dramatically collapsed in his chair, arms to either side, eyes closed in exhaustion, as if he had finished a laborious task. Drama queen. John rolled his eyes but dutifully went to the window and lifted the curtain, peering down at the street.

Molly was meeting friends at a place nearby and was disappearing around the corner, coat collar turned up against the cold wind, walking a bit faster than normal. The cab with Sherlock’s mum and dad was just pulling away from the curb. All who were left was Greg and Mycroft stood together, watching the cab leave.

“Just about. It’s only Greg and Mycroft…left...” John trailed off, frozen with the curtain still raised, as Mycroft, after glancing up and down the street, pulled Greg to him for a kiss. A very long kiss. Thorough. A kiss that hinted, rather explicitly, that they were quite used to kissing each other. Were more than just passing acquaintances.

“John? What is it?”

John closed the curtain. Shook his head. Doubted what he’d seen. Lifted it back up.

“Um…”

Mycroft tried to step away, but Greg’s hand twined around his tie and teasingly pulled him back. Mycroft let himself be dragged forward, laughing, his breath fogging in the air between them before Greg kissed him again.

Okay. That was enough of that.

“Um.” John let the curtain fall again, blinking at it while he tried to process the idea of Greg and Mycroft. Together.

Sherlock raised his head, peering at John. “What is it?”

John pointed at the window. “It was just...Mycroft and Greg hadn’t left yet.”

“And that was a problem?” Sherlock suddenly surged forward in his chair. “They’re not coming back up are they? I’ll lock the door before I let Mycroft-”

“No, no! No. I don’t think they’ll be coming back up.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Yeah. Nothing’s wrong.”

“You’ve been looking out the window for a long time. Longer than you needed to in order to find out if everyone had left. Something obviously caught your interest. What was it?”

John didn’t know if he should tell Sherlock what he’d seen. On the one hand, he didn’t want to keep secrets from Sherlock. On the other, it wasn’t Sherlock’s business who his brother was dating. Or snogging? Shagging? Was that what Mycroft and Greg were doing? John didn’t want to know.

And honestly, it wasn’t John’s business either.

“Let’s open that wine. Yeah?” He gave Sherlock a smile and strode past him into the kitchen. Sherlock darted to the window and pulled back the curtain, but Greg and Mycroft must have gone because he lowered the curtain after a quick look and turned to John suspiciously.

“What did you see?”

“You know, your mum’s promised to send me photographs of when you were a teenager.” John uncorked the wine and searched for two clean glasses. All the tea things and glasses were still scattered around the sitting room, but he’d deal with those later. They had to have at least one that was clean. Eh, maybe not. They could share. Be more romantic.

Sherlock stood in the doorway, not offering to help, narrowing his eyes. John shot him a flirty look and Sherlock’s eyes narrowed further.

“I bet you were gorgeous as a teenager.”

Sherlock snorted, rolling his eyes. “Hardly. You heard my mother. I never had a proper boyfriend.” He said sarcastically, and John could hear the hurt beneath the sardonic veneer. It stung, that no one had wanted him, even years later, the wound still fresh. John could understand that and it was a goddamn shame that no one had ever seen the true perfection of Sherlock Holmes. He abandoned the wine, tossing the cork at the table, and turned to Sherlock.

“Then that was their loss. I refuse to believe that you were anything short of breathtaking.”

Sherlock scowled, obviously thinking John was taking the piss and not enjoying it. “John…”

“I’m serious, Sherlock. There’s not a fucking way possible you weren’t the most beautiful thing anyone had ever seen.” John stepped forward, grinning. “Those curls. Cheekbones. Body.” He pulled on Sherlock’s hips, aligning them together before pressing him against the wall. “And all that goddamn amazing intelligence, telling people off for being stupid and not having time for idiots- and doing it with the most gorgeous pair of lips I’ve ever seen in my life.”

John could tell Sherlock was faltering, blinking faster than normal as he tried to process what John was telling him. John let him take his time, running his hands from Sherlock’s hips up his sides, curling his hands around him so they were as close together as possible. He could feel Sherlock’s body reacting to the contact, and maybe as John’s words finally sank in, became assimilated into his psyche.

“What about you?” Sherlock asked and John hummed.

“Hm? What about me?”

“You were a football player. Into all the sports actually, weren’t you? Popular. Rough and tumble. The guy everyone liked. A different girlfriend every week. You wouldn’t have noticed I existed.”

“I doubt that.” John leaned up and kissed Sherlock’s neck, feeling his breath sigh out and that felt so nice that he had to do it again. And again. He felt Sherlock start to harden. “I wouldn’t have been able to keep my hands off you.”

“You would have said you weren’t gay, and that would have been that.”

“Mm. Maybe.” John kissed Sherlock again. “But I’ve been saying I’m not gay for years, and look at us now.” He reached between them and demonstrably trailed his knuckles up the defined ridge in Sherlock’s trousers. “And I’m about to take you to bed and make sure, in any way possible, that this becomes the best day you’ve had, and that it wasn’t ruined by having people intruding on us...because when you look back at this, all you’ll be able to remember is how hard I made you come when everyone left.”

“ _Yes_ , John.” Sherlock breathed and John smirked, calculating just how long they had before Rosie woke up from her nap compared to how much time he needed to make Sherlock go nonverbal.

Plenty. There was plenty of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks, I'll be posting one chapter a week until this mother is done :) Thanks to all who have supported me in this. It's been a trip.
> 
> Ooops, I did a Mystrade.


	27. Day 27- Family

Sherlock Holmes knew how to sleep in a bed.

Correction: he’d _thought_ he knew how to sleep in a bed. It wasn’t a difficult concept and he’d thought that he knew the whole process: the best sleep schedule that allowed him the minimum necessary hours of rest, his favorite sleeping positions, the meanings of his recurrent dreams, ways to get relaxed and be comfortable, and what lulled him to sleep and why.

But that was all before Sherlock slept in a bed with _John_ and now Sherlock knew that all other sleeping arrangements were ruined, forever. He couldn’t understand how he had managed to live 30 some-odd years sleeping without the warm, comforting presence of having a John Watson in his bed. It was a complete mystery.

That night, Sherlock was tucked in his new favorite John-centric sleeping position: on his stomach, head pillowed halfway on John’s chest and upper arm, his own arm flung out over John’s stomach, while both of John’s hands touched him gently, roaming over Sherlock’s body as they drifted to sleep. John’s arm, which Sherlock was partially laying on, couldn’t go far, only curving around until John’s fingers could barely brush a small bit of Sherlock’s back. But it was perfect: John running his fingertips up and down, up and down, up and down Sherlock’s spine in a gentle rhythm, so soothing and restful that Sherlock wasn’t able to keep his eyes open.

He sighed in contentment, snuggling closer to John and John’s other hand rubbed at the arm Sherlock had thrown across his middle, his whole palm caressing Sherlock’s skin. Up, down, across, up, down, across. The same tempo he was rubbing Sherlock’s back with. Sherlock was boneless with pleasure.

He didn’t even know if John were really aware of what he was doing, but if he wasn’t, Sherlock wasn’t going to tell him. He didn’t want John to stop. _Ever_. Now that he knew what it was like to be so sweetly petted in bed by John Watson, Sherlock couldn’t go back to the bleak nothingness of his former bedtime habits. He was in love with John and in love with being held by him and everything in Sherlock’s life was currently flawless and right and good so long as he was being cradled and pampered by John.

Or it would be.

But that night, Sherlock couldn’t fully relax. John was still touching him in a wonderful way, his strokes light and unhurried, but something was wrong. Sherlock frowned in the darkness.

“I can _feel_ you thinking.”

“Hm?” John asked distractedly, his hands stilling and that hadn’t been Sherlock’s goal at all. “What was that?”

“I said I can feel you thinking.” Sherlock repeated, wriggling, and John took the hint and starting petting him again.

“Oh. Sorry. I’ll try and...think quieter?”

Sherlock huffed. That wasn’t what he’d meant and John knew it. He was being difficult. Sherlock slung a leg over John’s lower body, across his warm thighs, and it felt like absolute bliss. “Are you really going to make me ask?”

“Ask what?”

Apparently he was. “What are you thinking about, John?”

This time, it was John’s turn to sigh, but his hands didn’t stop moving. If anything, they increased their motions, agitated now and fitful.

“Do you think...No, sorry. Fuck. I’m really bollocks at this sort of thing.”

“Just at this?” Sherlock teased, and the hand at his back found its way into his hair, giving it a soft retaliatory tug.

“Shaddup.” John sounded happier though, grateful the mood was lightened. “No. I was just thinking...wondering really. Um. If we asked, do you think Mycroft could help us with...with something?”

Sherlock's frown deepened. “Help with what? You know if we ask him to assist us, we’ll owe him a favor and you know what sort of favors Mycroft would ask for. You do remember the last case we worked for him-”

“Yeah, I know. I know. I remember. But. Still. If we asked, do you think he would?”

“Do we even _need_ to ask? Surely it’s something we could figure out ourselves.”

“Mm. Yeah. Probably.” John said but he didn’t sound convinced. Sherlock tilted his head up, the angle a bit awkward, and kissed the nearest part of John that he could reach, which happened to be his chin, scratchy and prickly with stubble. That was fine. He liked John’s chin.

“What is it you think we need help with?”

John’s hands sped up even more, flying back and forth over Sherlock’s body rapidly, and his breathing went funny, too shallow. Nervous. Uncomfortable. _Oh_. It was something to do with sentiment then. The idea made Sherlock feel giddy. He loved when John was sentimental- then just as quickly his good mood ended.

But why would John need Mycroft’s help?

He held still, resting his head back on John’s chest and listening to his heart pound, while John thought through exactly what he wanted to say. Sherlock didn’t want to rush him. John found this sort of thing difficult enough as it was, but Sherlock hoped, with the right encouragement and patience on his part, John would become more comfortable expressing himself. One day.

“I thought that maybe.” John began haltingly. “Your brother. Could help us with adoption papers?”

The sleepy, lazy mood Sherlock had felt evaporated instantly. He was abruptly wide awake and he must have stiffened against John, or given some sign of his distress, because John began rambling nervously.

“That’s only if you want to, of course. I mean. Adopt Rosie. I know we haven’t actually talked about it but but we did have that talk in the kitchen two days ago. After Rosie called you daddy, and you said that you’d. You know. Take us. That you wanted the both of us. And it got me thinking that if we’re going to be together, then we could adopt Rosie. Not we, I mean, since she’s my daughter but. You. You could adopt Rosie.”

“You want me to adopt Rosie?” Sherlock asked slowly. He had to have heard John wrong. He couldn’t really mean-

“Yes. I want you to adopt her so she’s legally your daughter. I know it’s rushed but you already take such good care of her and it’s like we’re our own little family anyway. But it’s only if you want to, and you can say no-”

Sherlock cut off John’s ridiculous statement with a kiss which was clumsily applied but did the job adequately. John made a surprised noise against Sherlock’s lips, before smiling.

“Is that a yes, then?”

Sherlock snorted, eyes stinging, trying to hide how affected he was, but he was shaking and he knew that John could feel it as close as they were pressed together. Neither mentioned it though.

“As if I would have possibly said different, John.”

“You never know. I thought-”

“Did you really think I wouldn’t want to be Rosie’s father?” Sherlock tried to keep the question light and in no way accusatory, but he was afraid it came out that way all the same. Because it rather hurt to think that John had suspected he wouldn’t want Rosie- gorgeous, brilliant, sweet Rosie- to be his daughter. That it was even a possibility Sherlock would turn him down.

John shook his head, his hair scuffing on the pillow. “No. I didn’t think that about you. Got myself worked up about asking you. But. No.”

“Good.” Sherlock relaxed against John again, falling into his second favorite John-centric sleeping position: face crammed against John’s neck so he could breathe him in as he dozed off, legs thrown over John as much as possible. When Sherlock had first laid like that, John said he felt smothered. Sherlock had offered to move, but John’s hands had grabbed at him, pulling him back. “I didn’t say that I didn’t like it.” he’d said and that had been all the encouragement Sherlock needed to keep doing it.

He was going to adopt Rosie. John wanted him to adopt Rosie. He already thought of them as a little family, all their own, and Sherlock was going to adopt Rosie. He squeezed John’s middle, overcome and happy, and John’s arms came up to hug him back. Finally, Sherlock was able to speak again.

“I think Mycroft can help but…” He hesitated, wondering why he was going to do something so self-destructive, but he had to make sure John knew. “Adoption papers are legally binding documents, John, and that would mean I have the same rights to Rosie as you do, and while I’m obviously flattered, I hope you’ve thought through the implications-”

“Sherlock?”

“Mm?”

“Stop talking.” John said sternly. “I wouldn’t have asked you to adopt her if I hated any part of the idea of you being Rosie’s father and taking care of her. I love every. Single. Thing. About the idea. Yeah?”

Sherlock smiled against John’s neck, and John writhed a bit. Ticklish. “Yes, John.”

They both settled in, wrapped around each other and ready for sleep. Sherlock didn’t think he would sleep for a long time though. A happy warmth suffused him all over. He couldn’t stop smiling. John wanted him to adopt Rosie. Besides becoming Rosie’s father (which was a precious dream all unto itself), that also hinted at adding a level of permanence to their relationship that made Sherlock feel...safe. Wanted.

He couldn’t wait to tell Mrs. Hudson, and she would no doubt carry the word throughout the neighborhood. Mrs. Turner would certainly be shocked. Sherlock giggled.

“What is it?” John asked sleepily, fingers carding through Sherlock’s hair lazily.

“I was just thinking of how the neighbors will talk.” Sherlock said cheekily. “About the two of us raising Rosie together while we’re living in sin.”

“Then marry me.”

Stiffening wasn’t the only reaction Sherlock gave to this new pronouncement. He pushed away from John entirely, raising up and staring at him in utter confusion. “ _What_?”

“I said marry me.”

“I…” Sherlock struggled, blinking rapidly in the darkness. “You’re not serious?”

“Yes, I am serious…” John sounded hurt but really. Where the hell had that come from? Sherlock had only been telling a joke about the nosy neighbors. John knew he didn’t give a toss what anyone would think of them. Besides, it was an outdated concept anyway, the need for marriage before having/raising a child. No one thought like that anymore. It had been a joke. Nothing serious.

John had made it serious.

Now, Sherlock was wrong-footed, uncomprehending in the face of John’s question.

“You want...to...marry me?” It didn’t make sense. Nothing about that statement made sense.

“Yes...that’s what I just said.”

“ _Why_?” Sherlock asked, in utter bemusement and John sat up in bed, reaching for his hand. He fumbled around on top of the duvet for a second until he bumped into Sherlock’s and grasped it.

“What do you mean _why_?”

“I just. Why? Why would you want to marry me?”

“Because. Sherlock.” John sounded sad. “Because I love you. You’re...you’re it for me, Sherlock. You’re...it. I don’t want anyone else but you. Ever. For the rest of my life. I just want...you. And we don’t have to get married for that to happen, but I...you said we’d be living together in sin-”

“I was joking-”

“Yeah, got that part. But. I stand by what I said.” John reached for him in the dark and pressed a soft kiss to Sherlock’s cheek which was somehow more erotic and affected Sherlock stronger than anything else John had ever done to him. He gasped, steadying himself by clutching at John’s arms. “Marry me?”

Sherlock took a deep breath, and the shaking was back again because yes. He wanted that. He wanted to marry John and be a legally recognized couple and be able to say ‘my husband’ and be referring John and everyone would know it. He wanted the permanence and commitment and reciting his vows to John as he’d tortured himself imagining during John’s wedding to Mary. He would actually get to do that. It wasn’t just an idle daydream. But.

“You mean marriage? Marriage with rings and a...and a church? And grooms and bridesmaids and...swan napkins?”

“No. God, no. None of that. I don’t want any of that.”

Sherlock’s heart sank like a stone. He had miscalculated. John had meant something else-

“That’s a _wedding_ , Sherlock. And we can have that, if you want. Honestly. We can have the biggest fucking wedding London’s ever seen. But that’s all it is. Just a ceremony. You know? It doesn't really mean anything except that you’re good at planning big parties. That’s all it is and I want...I want to marry you. I want a marriage. I want to commit myself to you for the rest of my life and know that you feel the same way. I want...to wake up every day with you and know that you’re mine. Absolutely mine. And then every night watch you go to sleep- even if I’m pissed at you. Or you’re pissed at me...or we’re both angry at each other and shouting. I still want you. I want that. I want us to make a life together...more than we’ve already done, an extension of what we already have.”

This was the most sentimental speech John had given since his apology to Sherlock earlier that month in the loo, and Sherlock was suddenly glad he’d closed the curtains before they went to bed. Clearly the cover of darkness had given John boldness to speak.

“Yes.” Sherlock breathed. “Yes, John I...I want that too.”

“Thank god.” John whispered and they blindly reached for each other. They kissed and it was perfect, even if their noses bumped and John’s mouth missed Sherlock’s completely on their first attempt, and when Sherlock licked his way into John’s mouth his breath tasted slightly sour from swallowing Sherlock’s come earlier. It was still wonderful.

They kissed and kissed, giggling like children, giddy with euphoria as they resettled themselves in bed. John’s arms were fully wrapped around Sherlock and Sherlock’s whole body was mostly on top of John. It was his third favorite John-centric position.

“I think Mycroft will help with that.” Sherlock said. “But we won’t ask him. You can mention it to Mummy and she can pressure Mycroft into agreeing. That way we won’t owe him anything. She’ll love being a grandmother. Officially.”

“She enjoyed herself today, with Rosie, didn’t she?”

“Mm.”

“Gave Rosie too many biscuits.”

“That’s her prerogative, John.” Sherlock replied, mock serious and John giggled, then sobered. Sherlock could feel that John wanted to ask something else. He waited.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“How can you forgive him?”

“What?”

John was quiet, then. “Your brother. How can you forgive him?”

Sherlock didn’t ask what John was referring to because he already knew. He rubbed his cheek against John’s chest, breathing in the smell of laundry detergent and soap and allowing it to calm him, not succumbing to any memories. “Because it wasn’t Mycroft’s fault, John. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. It was just one of those things, a serious miscalculation during a mission that ended poorly. If blame were to be laid anywhere, I think it would rest with me-”

“That wasn’t your fault!” John said heatedly and Sherlock shook his head, shushing him.

“I didn’t say I deserved what happened, John. I said it was my fault that I was captured in the first place. I think it was, anyway. There’s no way of knowing for sure. But I knew the risks when I went in. Mycroft and I had all the information we needed and we planned the operation for months. I didn’t go off on some half-cocked plan, cobbled together in half a day, with Mycroft’s threats hanging over my head.” He sighed. “Things happen. Plans go wrong. But it wasn’t Mycroft’s fault.”

John’s hands ran through Sherlock’s hair and down over his back, touching the scars through his shirt. It felt good and Sherlock let him carry on.

“Mrs. Hudson said that Mycroft lost you. For months.”

Sherlock pressed into the contact, letting John rub at his back harder as if he could somehow erase the scars and what happened to Sherlock along with it. “I’m not Mycroft’s umbrella. He didn’t misplace me out of negligence. I chose to go into the mission- all of the missions- knowing the risks. It was my decision. Mycroft never pressured me to go. Ever. We could have worked something else out, if I hadn’t wanted to- but the two of us working as we did was the best option...and I was the best person to go undercover. Mycroft never was much good with leg work.”

John stayed quiet and Sherlock wondered what he was thinking. Of those lost months? The pain and humiliation Sherlock had felt the whole time? Comparing what he himself had been doing back in London while Sherlock was going through hell and somehow castigating himself because he somehow should have _known_? The strategies Mycroft had used to get him out?

Speaking of which...

“Mycroft was the one who got me out, incidentally.” Sherlock murmured, wanting to ease John’s mind. “I managed to escape once- a mad dash through the woods in the snow- a desperate attempt. But there were too many of them, and of course they were well prepared and organized for just such a thing. Very well organized. I was recaptured. Rechained. All of the rest. It was enough, however, to let those who were searching for me know my whereabouts and the next week, there was a new man among them. I recognized his voice. He waited for the right opportunity, then got me out.”

John’s hands rested heavily on Sherlock’s back, but his breathing had evened out, some of the tension easing from his frame. Sherlock could still tell the direction of John’s thoughts. They were not pleasant.

“Of course...I’ll never admit that to him.” Sherlock said briskly, trying to lighten the mood again. “He would never let me hear the end of it so you musn’t mention it to him either.”

John squeezed him silently, acknowledging the joke but not otherwise reacting. Sherlock sighed tiredly.

“He killed those men. In Serbia.”

He felt John go rigid, more from the broaching of the topic he was already thinking about than the information Sherlock had told him. John had probably suspected that the men were already dead from the moment he heard what happened. It hadn't bothered him, Sherlock was sure. John had probably wanted them dead too.

“Or well. Had them killed. I don’t think Mycroft directly involved himself. Although, maybe he did. I’m not sure. I never asked.”

“I’m glad they’re dead.” John whispered, and Sherlock didn’t respond, but he was too. Not that it made everything better, but it was pleasant to know that the people who had touched him were no longer walking the earth.

“My relationship with my brother is complicated, John. Mycroft would never do anything to purposefully harm me, and we may both want to kill each other, but we don’t actually want the other to die. If anything happened to Mycroft, I would be devastated and I’d avenge his death if needs be. He’d do the same for me. I want my brother to be happy, just as he does with me. I may get annoyed at his methods of trying to make me happy, and doing what he thinks is best without consulting me...but he tries. He really does. And I want him happy too.”

“Do you?” John kissed the top of Sherlock’s head and Sherlock veritably purred at the affection, sensing a shift in the mood, and he was right. John chuckled fondly, sounding happier. “You asked me earlier what I saw from the window? When everyone was leaving?”

There _had_ been something. Sherlock knew it. “Yes?”

“Well. Apparently your brother’s dating Greg. I saw them kissing down on the pavement so I assume they’re dating. Or well. Maybe not dating. I don’t know. Probably shagging at the very least.”

Sherlock slowly peeled himself away from John and wished there were enough light in the room so John could see the exact expression on his face.

“John. While I don't mind who my brother dates. _Never_ mention my brother and the word shagging again, in the same sentence, when we are in _bed_ together.” He proclaimed indignantly then rolled, away from John onto his side, giving him his back. The mood to cuddle was thoroughly ruined. It could be salvaged, though, if John wanted to try hard enough.

It turned out that he did.

Sherlock let John wheedle sweetly for the next half hour, gradually coaxing Sherlock closer to him, relaxing into his arms, and snuggling Sherlock with promises and kisses until Sherlock was satisfied- and John was forgiven.


	28. Day 28- Joy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: mentions of past rape/torture

Everyone dreams. In some way, shape, or form. Some people dream better dreams than others, and some people claim that they don’t dream at all because they don’t want to (or actually cannot) talk about what they see when they close their eyes at night.

Dreams are the brain's way of assimilating new information, dealing with problems, and acting out one’s unconscious desires in a way that is supposedly safe and relaxing and fun. Dreams can act as a problem-solving medium or even an escape from a wakeful reality that is less than ideal.

It’s not always pleasant, though, dreams. It’s not all love and hearts and flowers and unicorns and dreaming that you are the prima ballerina in a London ballet and that once you get backstage your short, slightly-homicidal ex-army boyfriend will shag you senseless in the dressing room.

Dreams can sometimes be remembrances of the past, flashbacks of memories that are too painful for the brain to think about during consciousness. Memories that are repressed and controlled during waking hours, when the sun is bright and there are lots of other things to occupy the mind with. But go to sleep, and all of that goes out the metaphorical window, because try as one might, a person never seems to have much control over their dreams, or what takes place in them, no matter how much of a genius they are. All of their impressive intellect cannot save them from what can possibly happen in dreams.

* * *

 

It was only natural, after Sherlock and John’s emotionally fraught, late-night conversation, that Sherlock would dream. About something. Anything. Everything.

Sherlock’s mind was racing when he closed his eyes after he and John finished talking and settled down, cuddling together to sleep. Sherlock was in his fourth favorite John-centric sleep position: John’s back to Sherlock’s chest, the smaller man comfortably spooned in Sherlock’s arms, with Sherlock’s entire body curved around him possessively.

John said it kept him warm.

Sherlock said it kept John close to him.

It was a win-win.

John went to sleep first that night because John thinks _John thoughts_ and _John thoughts_ are usually straightforward and honest. For the most part unassuming and uncomplicated. He’d told Sherlock he loved him. That he wanted Sherlock to adopt Rosie. Then, John proposed. Sherlock said yes. Sherlock reassured John about things which he’d been worried over for a while. John’s mind was unburdened in a way it hadn’t been in months. Everything seemed right and wonderful in his life.

The same could not be said for Sherlock.

His conversation with John, instead of unburdening his mind, had given Sherlock a lot to think about. Even more than usual. Plenty of new information to both assimilate and act out...and more than a few problems to deal with.

There were nice things that made Sherlock smile as he wound down, mind spiraling about slowly, like a top which was bit by bit losing momentum as he slipped closer and closer to sleep. John wanted him to adopt Rosie. John was absolutely certain about it. He wanted Sherlock to be Rosie’s father. John had asked Sherlock to marry him. John loved him. He didn’t want anyone else but Sherlock, ever, for the rest of his life. Sherlock was “it” for John.

Sherlock felt the same way about John. He had for years. He would forever.

Drowsily, Sherlock closed the remaining minuscule space between his body and John’s, tightening his arm the tiniest bit, and placing his head closer to John’s on the pillow so he could smell John’s hair- shampoo and musk and sweat- as he went to sleep. (Sherlock would deny he did such a thing. John knew better than to ever mention it. Besides, John knew if he did mention it, Sherlock would get shy and stop doing it. John did not want that because he found it weird...and adorable as fuck.)

Sherlock’s eyes closed without his volition, pulled down by the stress of the day and aided by John’s warm body against his and the knowledge that John loved him...John wanted to make a life with Sherlock...he wanted Sherlock for the rest of his life...

Dreams are a way into the unconscious mind; therefore, even if one wasn’t consciously aware of a certain feeling or mood or aspect, that link could be made in a dream, when the mind was allowed to do as it pleased and thoughts were allowed to run rampant.

Marriage….John wanted to marry him...what would marriage to John be like?...marriage….the legally recognized union of two people as partners in a personal relationship...he and John were already recognized as a union of two people, but now it would be legal...and personal...formal papers...swan napkins...speeches and telegrams-

_“I now pronounce you man and wife…”_

And heartbreak. John kissed Mary at the altar, his hands at her waist. Mary, her golden ring glinting, cupped John’s face and smiled into their kiss. Sherlock, stood behind John, was in perfect position to see Mary’s glowing face as John had earlier recited his vows to her for the entire church to hear, his voice firm. Certain. Mary’s eyes had skipped past John’s face. Fell on Sherlock. She beamed. Happy. Eyes sparkling. Triumphant. Effective as a lance through Sherlock’s heart.

Sherlock had dismissed the look. Explained it away until it was no longer disquieting: Mary was happy. She was happy because she was marrying John Watson. Anyone in their right mind would be happy, overjoyed, ecstatic, grateful to be marrying John Watson. Sherlock would have been. While John recited his vows, Sherlock wanted to close his eyes and imagine…imagine...

Silly, useless sentiment.

Hurt.

His chest hurt. Blood blossomed on the front of his shirt. Pain. No. That wasn’t right. His shirt hadn’t been bloody at the wedding. It had remained pristine and unsullied. Sherlock’s chest still hurt.

He ran his hands over his chest, searching for the wound, the small hole where the bullet had slashed through his body. There was nothing there. Where was the blood coming from?

Sherlock planned John’s wedding, consulting with Mary on what she, as John’s chosen bride, wanted when she bound herself to John for the rest of their lives. She smiled, so happy and pleased, as she took John from Sherlock.

 _No_.

No. That wasn’t right. Wrong way to think of things. John had chosen Mary. John loved Mary. John didn’t...he wouldn’t...it had never been a possibility for he and Sherlock to…

Too much blood. There was too much blood.

Sherlock didn’t allow himself to think of the wedding, even as he was planning the ceremony, working out the details, outlining a gorgeous reception for John and Mary to celebrate their love with all their friends and family. Sherlock didn’t allow himself to ponder over what it all meant. That it was real. John was getting married. John was getting married to someone else.

_“I, John Watson, take you, Mary Elizabeth Morstan, to be my lawfully wedded wife…”_

Sherlock placed orders and made phone calls and filled out the ceremony schedule so that everything would go smoothly- all for John. All of it for John. Always John. John.

John who had gotten Mary pregnant.

More pain. Too much pain. It took his breath away.

Hide it. Don’t ruin this for John. Get rid of it, lock it away-

Sherlock had known John and Mary were sleeping together. Of course they were. They were a couple. John had always enthusiastically enjoyed sexual relations with his girlfriends. His many girlfriends. When he had them. Sherlock had known, in the same detached sort of way he’d known that he was planning John’s wedding to Mary, that John was sleeping with Mary.

The proof of their lovemaking- their recent lovemaking- in front of Sherlock...after watching the man he loved pledge himself, body and soul, with heartfelt vows, to someone else...

Blood. The blood was dripping down, falling in wet splatters against the concrete floor. Pain radiated through his core. Where was it coming from? Sherlock tried to run his hands down his chest, searching for the bullet wound, knowing he needed to do something- save himself- but his hands were restrained. With what?

Mary’s smile. The mocking look she aimed at Sherlock over John’s shoulder as John spun her away on the dance floor.

His chest hurt. It hurt all the way through his body, emanating outward from a central point.

But no. That wasn’t right, Sherlock realized with something akin to relief. It wasn’t his chest that was hurting. He wasn’t shot. It was his back. That was where the blood was coming from. The blood ran in vibrantly red rivulets across Sherlock’s chest. He was chained, tipped forward, and the blood slicked from the wounds on his back onto his front, flowing down his chest to drip sluggishly onto the concrete floor. He heard movement and braced for impact.

More pain. Chained. He was chained. Helpless. No one knew where he was. Laughter as they hurt him. Wanting John. John. John. John. Wanting John.

Wanting to see John again. Wanting John to love him. Wanting John to forgive him. Wanting John to make the pain go away. John always patched him up and Sherlock tried to remember the way John’s hands had felt on him, steady and sure, dabbing at his wounds and giving sweet healing-

Rough hands on his body instead. Harsh and demanding. Pitiless as they casually inflicted more pain. More pain...more pain… Pain.

Wanting John to touch him. Make love to him. Too many memories when he did. Too much between them. Too much had happened. John had made love to Mary. He had gotten her pregnant. Proof of their desire-

John reciting his vows, voice even and strong, carrying through the whole church. John loved Mary. He did not love Sherlock.

_“Neither of us were the first you know.”_

_“He has a right...I killed his wife.”_

_“Yes, you did.”_

_“He’d rather have anyone but you. Anyone.”_

_“I, John Watson, take you, Mary Elizabeth Morstan-”_

_“Gonna die with us, slut, but not until we’ve had our fun-”_

Sherlock twitched himself awake, heart racing, pounding out of his chest with fear. He was slicked with sweat and on the verge of absolute panic as he stared sightlessly into the dark and for a terrifying moment, he didn’t know where he was. It was too dark. His chest hurt. There was so much pain. Sherlock lay perfectly still, not wanting to draw attention to himself, not until he figured out where he was and if movement would alert his captors and draw attention to himself. He didn’t want their attention.

His mind was slow to come awake and process what he was seeing, feeling, battling through the stupor of sleep...

Oh. Stupid.

His bedroom. He was in his own bedroom, his own bed. Safe. Warm. Warm? Sherlock turned his head and almost sobbed with relief when he saw John stretched beside him, sleeping peacefully. For a second, Sherlock had been afraid...he had been confused- what was a dream and what was real….?

Sherlock lay and stared at John for a few minutes, until his heart calmed somewhat and he felt a little less shaky, his dream retreating to the shadows but not gone away. Not entirely. Finally, he carefully slipped out of bed, making sure not to wake John, and padded silently into the loo. He didn’t turn on the light. He didn’t want to see himself, or anything, in a harsh glare. He turned on the tap so the water ran as a trickle, not loud enough to alert John to what he was doing, and patiently waited for his cupped hands to fill with cool water before splashing it on his overheated cheeks, again and again, washing away the stickiness of sweat, but it didn’t make him feel any better.

His body was jittery, mind disturbed. There was no possible way he could rest. Not now. Everything felt extremely...unreal. It was as if there was a haze over the entire flat and Sherlock saw everything through a fog. He wondered, with a stab of fear, if he were still dreaming. If he were still in Serbia and this entire thing between himself and John had been a hallucination, a desperate attempt to escape what was happening to him and preserve his sanity-

But no.

The cold floor froze his bare feet as he moved into the sitting room, wrapping his arms around himself, shivering. He wanted to go back to bed. Climb under the warm sheets beside John and reach for him, see John blink himself awake, grunting, asking if something were wrong, before wrapping his arms around Sherlock and holding him, pressing a kiss to the top of his head like he always did.

Sherlock closed his eyes with longing. He wanted that so much...but he didn’t go back to bed. He was too restless.

Four in the morning was never a pleasant time for Sherlock. Either it meant he had stayed up too late because of something terrible, or he was awake too early because of something terrible.

Rosie slept on in her crib, undisturbed by Sherlock wandering around the flat, behaving like a nutter. Sherlock watched her sleep, trying to break through the feeling of unreality that still held him in its grip. He would be her father. He would be Rosie’s father. He would adopt her. She would grow up knowing Sherlock as her father, her father’s husband.

It didn’t seem possible.

Good things like that didn’t happen to people like Sherlock.

He watched her sleep a while longer, mind plagued, before tearing himself away to add a few logs to the fire to warm the room, being as quiet as he could. He didn’t know what to do with himself. He didn’t want to go back to bed. He didn’t want to be awake and alone. He gripped the mantle, knuckles turning white, as the warmth of the fire seeped through his pajamas and tried to ground himself.

Nothing helped.

When Sherlock pushed aside the curtains at the window, the street outside was quiet. Calm. Dawn was still two hours away and the city was hushed, not many people stirring at such an early hour. And there were no sounds in the usually noisy flat either. No telly. No crying baby. No laughter or happy shrieks as Rosie played. No Mrs. Hudson chatting to either Sherlock or John. No John muttering as he typed, doing the dishes or making tea.

There was nothing.

It reminded Sherlock of how the flat had felt when he first returned. Empty. Silent. The desolate feeling in his chest expanding until it couldn’t be contained beneath his ribs and he thought it would drive him mad. He had been all alone on nights like this- and there had been lots of these nights, after dreams such as earlier.

No one.

Nothing.

But when Sherlock turned around, there was not nothing. The flat was full. _Teeming_ with signs of life.

Rosie’s toys were scattered everywhere, all over the floor. John always groused that they needed to be put up, in their proper place, but Sherlock enjoyed the chaos. He liked the tangible proof that Rosie lived here, that she belonged here. This was her flat filled with her toys, and Sherlock was thankful he hadn’t picked her toys up before bed like John had asked him to. That morning, he needed the proof.

John’s things- each item dear to Sherlock- covered the surfaces of the flat too, no matter where Sherlock looked. Indications of occupancy. Evidence that Sherlock wasn’t alone. Not anymore.

Sherlock, taking in every sight he could to try and calm the horrible, borderline panicked feeling in his chest, sank into his chair, pulling his knees up to his chest, curling himself into a protective ball on the leather.

This time just last year, Sherlock had been alone, trying and failing not to imagine how happy John was with Mary and his daughter, picturing the nice Christmas they were spending together in which Sherlock was clearly not wanted.

Now, Sherlock almost had a daughter. Rosie called him “daddy.” John loved him. He told Sherlock so every day. John wanted to marry him. He said that Sherlock was the best thing that had ever happened to him. John had loved him for years, all that time.

It was the most unbelievable assertion Sherlock had ever heard.

But he wanted to believe it. He wanted to believe it so badly.

Sherlock was terrified something would happen and he would mess it all up.

People like him didn’t get happy endings. He was afraid to be optimistic. It could all come crashing down. What would happen when John realized that Sherlock wasn’t what he wanted? That Sherlock was really nothing special? That Sherlock, when one came right down to it, was a hassle? He couldn’t give John what he wanted. What would John do when he found that, no matter how hard Sherlock tried, he wasn’t a good parent to Rosie? He wouldn’t love Sherlock anymore. He would leave. Take Rosie. Take-

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock jerked his head up, startled. He hadn’t heard John get up, or walk down the hall, but he supposed he wasn’t the only one who could be quiet.

“What’re you doing?” John didn’t wait for an answer, crossing the room so he could crouch in front of Sherlock. John knew from personal experience that people didn’t wake up at 4 in the morning and sit in the dark unless something was wrong. “What is it?”

Sherlock uncurled himself, lowering his feet to the floor, and John fully knelt beside his chair, reaching for him. His hands were warm on Sherlock’s knees and Sherlock resisted the urge to grab John’s hand and never let go.

“What’s wrong?” John asked softly, and Sherlock despairingly gave in and took John’s hand. John gripped it tightly in return and some of the tension in Sherlock leached away.

“I love you.” Sherlock whispered, and John smiled.

“I love you.”

Sherlock looked at their hands, wrapped together, arrested by the sight. “What if it’s not real?”

“What’s not real?”

“This. All of this. John...I’ve wanted it for so long.” Sherlock confessed. He had no secrets from John, not anymore. “And now I’m being given everything.” He shook his head, increasing his hold on John’s hand. “Things like that don’t happen in real life.”

John gave Sherlock another smile, squeezing his hand. John clearly knew what to say and Sherlock expected words of comfort, something to make him feel better.

“No. It doesn’t. You’re absolutely right.” John said, smiling wryly at Sherlock’s surprise. “What do you want me to say? You’re right, Sherlock. Things like that _don’t_ happen in real life. People don’t get what they want, and they have to deal with lots of shit and they struggle through and try to be happy with stuff they don’t want, settling for...knowing that they can’t have what they really do want. We’ve done that for a long time, haven’t we? Me and you?” John leaned closer, kissing Sherlock’s cheek. “But this is real. How I feel about you, Sherlock, is real. It’s the...it sounds stupid but...it’s the realest thing I’ve ever felt in my life.” He breathed and Sherlock made a small noise- then he was being hugged by John, wrapped in his arms like he had wanted earlier and he buried his face in John’s neck, refusing to let go. John didn’t try and make him.

“I love you. None of this is going away. It’s not going to disappear, or suddenly be gone, because you, Sherlock Holmes, are _essential_ to me. I can’t...without you.” John murmured haltingly. “I’ve struggled through like I said and settled for what I didn’t want and you've lived through what you didn’t want and now...this is our reward. We deserve it. We get each other, yeah? And it’s gonna be real. There's no way it could be anything else.”

Sherlock let John’s words wash over him, breathing deeply as John held him, stroking over his back and letting Sherlock relax. It felt so nice that Sherlock wanted to stay there all night, but he felt John shift minutely, shuffling from knee to knee, and pulled away.

“You’re hurting.”

“Part of being an old man, love. This floor is hell on my knees.” John quipped. “Come on. Come back to bed with me?”

* * *

 

There was a quiet joy in slipping back under the covers and curling close to John, knowing that if he reached out, John would be there. Just the knowledge of it contained its own joy for Sherlock, and it’s own comfort.

The joy turned to warm exuberance, though, when John reached out for him, touching Sherlock’s hand and holding it beneath the duvet as he gave him one last assurance.

“It’s always going to be real, Sherlock.”


	29. Day 29- Power Outage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally have no idea if power outages are frequent in the UK. I am writing from an American perspective and taking inspiration for the events in this chapter from what happened during my own childhood with some frequency. Especially in the winter. We owned mountains of blankets and I was an expert at fire-roasting potatoes.

It was late morning before Sherlock woke up, bleary-eyed and lethargic, drowsiness clinging to his eyes like a film after the previous night. It was hard to open his eyes and when he did they immediately wanted to shut again. The space beside him was empty. John’s side (it gave him a little thrill to think of the other side of his bed as _John’s_ ) rumpled and cold. He’d clearly been up and gone for a while, but Sherlock still swept out an arm, reaching across the expanse as if he could somehow find John and pull him back into bed. He wished he’d been awake before John left so he could have experienced the pleasure that was waking up in the morning with John. It was hopelessly sentimental but Sherlock reveled in each new piece of information and unexpected angle he discovered in their relationship. Everything was changed between them now. Sherlock was allowed to fall asleep beside John every night, and wake up beside him every morning, and both actions, while banal in and of themselves, were still new enough to be novel. Sherlock frowned, hating that he’d missed waking up with John, but sternly deciding to be awake the following morning.

The very fact that there would be a following morning sent another thrill coursing through him and even though there was no John to make the experience perfect, Sherlock settled back under the covers, pulling them up around his ears, tired enough to want to rest a few more minutes. It also gave him time to examine what had happened last night from all angles, turning over the incidence like a rubix cube, before he saw John again.

The disquiet he’d felt the night before was muted. It was a soft sort of ache beneath his breastbone that persisted in remaining no matter what John had said, but he felt…better. Lighter. Calm instead of vibrating with anxiousness.

Because he _had_ been anxious, Sherlock realized. Without even knowing it. Uneasy with the series of events as he was propelled forward with terrifying momentum in a direction he’d never thought possible. Never even dreamed likely. Too much had happened in too short a space of time. He and John had gone from being uneasy friends to flatmates. Flatmates to lovers. Came together and fell apart. Reopened old wounds and set about healing them.

John wanted him to adopt Rosie. He wanted to marry Sherlock.

It didn’t seem possible. Any of it.

This time last year, Sherlock had been alone and miserable. Depressed as he thought of the man he loved, the person he wanted to spend the rest of his life with even if it were just as friends or flatmates, happy with his little family, with no thought of Sherlock at all. To find out differently, to have that reality proven time and again…Sherlock thought it was no wonder he had been afraid none of it was real last night. It was too good to be true. Things like that didn’t happen to people like him and-

Rosie’s happy shriek rang down the hall, over and over as she ran. It was quickly followed by the sounds of John’s footsteps and him frantically trying to shush her in a low voice.

“Daddy’s sleeping. Yeah? We need to let him sleep this morning, you and I. Remember what I told you? We must be very quiet while we play. Only quiet games for now, love. I promise I’ll take you to the park later and let you make as much noise as you want, but for now we need to be quiet. Ssshhh.”

“Da-ddee!”

“Sshhh. Yes, love, just like that.”

Sherlock listened to the exchange. He could picture what John was doing. He would be on his knees in front of Rosie, as he usually was when he spoke to his daughter about important things, face open and soft as he looked at her. He’d do his best not to look annoyed- holding up a finger to his lips and letting Rosie copy him. Then, he’d smile when she did. He’d take her hand and lead her back to the sitting room-

“C’mon, love. We’ll play with your tea set. Okay? And I’ll make us some real tea and let you have a few biscuits…but remember, we’ve got to be quiet…”

John’s voice trailed off as he moved further away. Sherlock sighed, rolling over and looking at the door. He wanted to be near John again.

John.

John who’d come to find him last night when he didn’t have to. When he saw that Sherlock was gone from the bed, he could have easily stayed where it was warmer, rolled over beneath the covers, and gone back to sleep. It had been the easier option, the one causing the least amount of fuss. At gone 2 in the morning, a lot of bother wasn’t what a person wanted. They wanted rest and sleep, unperturbed by madmen traipsing about the flat worried they had hallucinated the last month as some sort of escapist coping mechanism while they were tortured.

John was never one to take the easy way out, though. It was what Sherlock loved about him- one of the many, many things he loved about him. So John had climbed out of bed, braving the icy chill of the hallway, and went in search of Sherlock, hunting him out in the dark stillness of the night. And when he’d found him, there’d been no judgments, or irritation at Sherlock acting like, well, _Sherlock_. John had offered comfort. A warm hand to hold. A smile that hid it’s own shadows. A quiet place for Sherlock to feel safe as he whispered his fears. Genuine reassurance grounded in reality. Then, they’d crawled into bed together, each reaching for the other-

It was more than Sherlock had ever hoped for. And he had been given _all_ of it.

Those were the ecstatic thoughts which finally compelled him out of bed, believing and yet unable to believe, and wanting to see proof of the sources of his newfound happiness. He bypassed the loo, knowing he needed a piss and to brush his teeth and that his hair was matted in an ugly way, but that could wait. None of it mattered in favor of-

“Da!”

John, cross-legged and holding a small pink cup of tea, turned from his place on the floor at Rosie’s shout. When he saw Sherlock stood in the doorway, his eyes lit up. There was no other word for it. Sherlock stared in wonder.

John didn’t seem to notice and gave him a smile that warmed him all the way down his middle and into his toes which curled against the cold floor. Happiness sang and swelled through him until he thought he would burst from it.

“Good morning. Or well. Afternoon, I guess. I thought I’d let you have a bit of a lie in. Thought you might have needed it after last night.”

It felt so _good_ to be loved by John, and to be the recipient of John’s care. It felt as if everything were right and good in the world.

“Yes. I…yes, I…did.”

“Good.” John jerked his head in Rosie’s direction who was carefully stacking chocolate biscuits on a little plastic tray. “Care for some tea? Between you and me, I wouldn’t recommend it. The service here is ridiculous- waited forever for my cuppa and the waitress has been shouting abuse at me the whole time. Keeps hoarding the biscuits too.”

Sherlock huffed what he hoped sounded like a laugh, but his lungs felt too tight. He swallowed hard and attempted a smile. “Opening a business is never easy, John. She’s doing her best. You should be proud of her entrepreneurial undertakings.”

John chuckled and Sherlock felt a burst of pride that he’d managed to make him laugh. It was ridiculous. They’d been together the last few weeks. He’d made John laugh many, many times before this morning.

“Da-dee!” Rosie tottered her way to standing, snatching a carefully arranged biscuit from her tray and hurrying to Sherlock. She extended it with arms outstretched and Sherlock scooped her up, accepting the biscuit with warm thanks and kissing her cheek. She almost immediately wriggled to be put down again and went back to her tea things spread out over the floor.

John groaned as he got up, wincing when his knees popped. “I’ve thought it before, but that settles it. I’ve been asking for a biscuit the last half hour and she’s not given me a crumb, then you come in and not only get one, but hand delivered.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re Rosie’s favorite father.”

Sherlock’s pleasure at being referred to as Rosie’s father was tempered with worry. He didn’t want John thinking he was stealing Rosie or her affection away from him. John wouldn’t be jealous, surely, but it would be a hurtful thing to think of one’s daughter and John may grow to resent Sherlock. He fumbled to reassure him.

“I don’t see how this confirms it. Really, John. She’s only three. I hardly think-“

“Sherlock. I was joking.” John crowded closer to him and gave him a quick peck to shut him up- then stole the biscuit out of his hand. “I know she loves us both. And she does, you know. Love you.”

This was Sherlock’s life now.

It was all real.

Sherlock’s brain was still locked, trying to assimilate it all, when John gave him a cheeky wink, biting off half the biscuit before handing it back.

“What’s yours is mine, mine is yours. Well. _In_ _theory_ , for the time being at least.”

Sherlock smiled, eyes roving over John’s cheerful face, suddenly feeling playful himself. “Does that apply to _all_ things, John?”

John’s eyes narrowed and it was easy to watch the emotions play across his face as he tried to determine if Sherlock had meant that as it’d sounded. When he finally determined that he had, he chuckled then glanced behind him to where Rosie was still playing, oblivious, before moving closer to Sherlock and kissing his cheek so he could whisper-

“Damn right it applies to all things.” John’s lips brushed against the shell of his ear and Sherlock closed his eyes, swaying forward-

“Go and shower.” John pulled away, leaving Sherlock bereft. His eyes sparkled with mischief and the only thing that kept Sherlock from dragging him back to bed was Rosie, humming as she pretended to pour tea into her cups. “We’ll have lunch after, then figure out what to do with ourselves the rest of the day.”

Sherlock knew what he wanted to do the rest of the day. That, sadly, wasn’t likely. He cleared his throat, clasping his hands in front of his to hide any possible…indiscretions. “Anything in particular in mind?”

John shrugged. “Just thought we could spend the day together. Told Rosie I’d take her to the park later. We could have dinner out.”

“Sounds lovely.”

“Good.”

Sherlock was almost to the loo door when he felt John’s hands around his waist, pressing along his back to tell him one last thing.

“I do have plans for tonight, though. Something I think you’re going to absolutely love.”

All the breath left Sherlock’s body in a rush and he tried to turn around, but John’s hands held him firm.

“Not going to spoil the surprise. You’d probably deduce it right out of me-“

“I’m not all-knowing.” Sherlock would have been embarrassed at how much his voice was shaking, but John’s hands were like a hot brand even through the cloth of his pajamas and so he gave himself a free pass.

“Mm. Guess not. Still.” John’s lips against the nape of his neck, a quick kiss. “Wait until tonight. You won’t be disappointed.”

Sherlock wanted to say that he was never disappointed with anything he and John did together- especially with sex because John was fantastic- but he didn’t know if he could get the words out properly. He settled for nodding, and heard John laugh softly before releasing him.

“Go shower. Rosie and I will be waiting for you.”

* * *

 

Sherlock washed quickly, wanting to spend as much time as possible with John and Rosie. He scrubbed at his body, only thinking of getting done- until a thought occurred. Sherlock froze…then began washing again, slower this time, paying more attention to details. Being very, _very_ thorough. John had said he had plans for that night, but Rosie always took a nap in the afternoons. And after exhausting herself at the park, she might very well take another before bedtime. Sherlock certainly hoped she did.

He dragged the loofah up his thighs, then between them, cheeks heating as he let himself imagine. It would be better to err on the side of caution.

It was as he was scrubbing his scalp, suds threatening to get into his eyes before he ducked under the spray to wash them out-

Darkness.

The light suddenly went out, pitching the little room into total blackness.

Alarmed, Sherlock fumbled at the taps, turning them off, and in the silence that followed, absolute panic exploded in his chest.

He didn’t like this. He didn’t like the darkness.

It was complete. Impenetrable.

It was hard to breathe. His chest was too tight, and this time it wasn’t from happiness.

Sherlock leaned against the wall of the shower as his knees threatened to buckle beneath him. He was being irrational. He wasn’t there anymore. He was home. He was home. He was at home in his own loo and he needed to…he needed to…

Sherlock pressed a hand against his mouth, breathing shakily through his nose. He was being too loud. He had to be quiet. Don’t draw attention to yourself. Don’t do anything to remind them you exist and bring them back.

No.

No. That wasn’t right. He was at home. He’d been taking a shower. He was wet, hair dripping into his eyes. Water. He’d been in the shower.

Sherlock staggered from the shower, groping in front of him. A distant part of him knew that he was panicking and needed to calm down. He was making matters worse for himself by losing his head.

He couldn’t find the door. His hands skidded along the wall, searching. He knew where the door was in his own loo- but for some reason he couldn’t find it.

Where was the door?

Where was it? Where was it? Where was it?

What if there wasn’t a door?

What if he were wrong?

What if he were back there again?

What if he called and John didn’t come?

What if-

“Sherlock? You all right?”

The wall split to his right. The door. He’d been near the door the entire time. Light from a torch shone into the room and John’s eyes immediately found Sherlock; one glance and he _knew_. But John stayed in the doorway, cautious. “Sherlock?”

Shame was immediate, thick and choking, over the way he’d behaved. Pathetic. The power had gone out and he’d acted ridiculous. Thinking…

Sherlock realized he was still shaking and made a conscious effort to stop. He didn’t want to always need John running to save him. He could do this himself. He could. He’d acted so silly.

“You’re all right.” John said, confident, and Sherlock’s attention jumped to his face. What he saw there reassured him more than anything else could have.

_Thank you, John._

“Yes. I’m…I’m fine.”

“Okay. Good.” John nodded, letting it drop for which Sherlock was thankful. “Power’s gone out. I don’t know if it’s just our building or the whole block. There’s enough light in the sitting room even without the power, so as soon as it happened I put Rosie in her crib and came looking for you. C’mon. We need to get you dried off and into some clothes- if it doesn’t get turned back on soon we’ll be freezing.”

John plucked up the towel and seemed ready to dry Sherlock himself, but Sherlock stopped him, taking it from him with hands that only barely shook. “There’s no need. I can do it.”

John relinquished the towel without hesitation. He didn’t ask if Sherlock were sure or not, for which Sherlock was also thankful, but he did stay with the torch so he would have light.

“I don’t know where the other torches are. I think you did something with them, actually. Maybe the case with the murderous gardener? The one with the lighter fluid? Remember? You created little bombs with them and then made me dress up as the landscaper and plant them all over the grounds…”

Sherlock let John ramble as he toweled off, then followed him into the bedroom to dress. The curtains were thrown wide but there was only one window and the overcast sky offered feeble grey light.

“Dress warm.” John ordered, giving Sherlock the torch and sitting on the edge of the bed. “We don’t know how long the power’s going to be out.”

“I know how to dress.” Sherlock muttered into his closet and behind him.

John snorted. “Yeah, but the more layers you wear now, the more fun you’ll have when I take them off you later.”

That earned him a smile, and Sherlock started to feel better. “Is there a rewards system attached to the number of layers I wear then?”

John cocked his head to the side. “Maybe.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but pulled on the requisite layers while John watched, conscious that he was being ogled and enjoying it. A lot.

“Boys? Is the power out up there too?”

John heaved a sigh, giving Sherlock’s chest one last longing glance, and left the torch with him. He strode to the top of the stairs so he could yell down at Mrs. Hudson. “Yes. It’s just gone out.”

“It’s not just us. It’s out up and down the whole block, I think. Do you know how long it might be?”

“Not a clue.”

“Well. I hope it’s not long. The temperatures already low and it’s supposed to drop as the evening goes on.”

John gave Sherlock a look when he came out of their bedroom, torch in hand. It was an odd look, his gaze taking in Sherlock’s entire body. He’d never looked at him like that before. Sherlock didn’t know what to make of it.

“Bring Sherlock and Rosie down. We’ll all be warmer in my flat.”

“Um.” John looked to Sherlock who frantically shook his head. “We’ll see. We’ve got…well. We’ve got a fire started so I think we’ll be all right for now.”

They heard Mrs. Hudson tsk, then the sound of her door slamming.

“She’s right, though.” John turned to Sherlock. “We would all be warmer down there. It’s too open up here. Too many windows.”

Sherlock silently conceded the point, saying goodbye to his idea of spending the day with only John and Rosie in pleasant intimateness. When he started to tell John that- and that they should gather Rosie’s things before they went downstairs- John was giving him That Look again. Sherlock frowned.

“What?”

“What?”

“What is it?”

“What is _what_?”

“Why are you giving me that look?”

“I’m not giving you a look.” Guilt was writ in every line of John’s body and for some reason, Sherlock started to feel dread.

“Yes, you are. You’re doing it right now.”

“No, I’m not-“

“We both know that you are. This is getting tedious. Just tell me what it is.” Sherlock growled and John sighed, looking away, his hands knotting into fists at his sides.

Oh. Sentiment.

_Sentiment?_

“All right. Fine. It’s…” John shifted uneasily on his feet, looking everywhere but at Sherlock. “It’s…you never wear. Clothes. Like that.”

Sherlock looked down at himself, the dark blue jumper layering over one of his usual shirts, the cuffs and collar of which were showing. No. He didn’t wear clothes like this frequently. “Yes, well…” He began doubtfully, not sure what John was trying to say, but John kept talking.

“And you look…I don’t know.” John shrugged. “Softer.”

“Softer?”

“Okay. Maybe not softer, but…” John gestured vaguely at Sherlock, a slow grin spreading across his face. “You look about 12.”

* * *

 

By the time Sherlock started talking to John again- _after_ John managed to earn forgiveness from him- the temperature in their flat had dropped significantly. John took Rosie upstairs to change clothes and their breath fogged in their faces. He threw on another jumper of his own and slung an extra one over Rosie’s diaper bag before they made their way downstairs, then followed Sherlock to Mrs. Hudson’s.

Her flat was smaller than upstairs, more compact, and could hold the heat from the fireplace better. For a while there was a flurry of activity and chaos as everyone got settled and debates were held as to what had happened, speculations made as to when the electric would come back on, and blankets pulled out of storage, the duvets Sherlock had used earlier in the month to build a blanket fort with Rosie put to their intended purpose.

“It’s not too bad, this.” John murmured to Sherlock as he passed with his arms full of blankets. “Nice and warm.”

Sherlock only huffed. He felt as if the weather itself were attempting to thwart his plans and no amount of dubious _niceness_ would soothe him.

* * *

 

It turned out, however, to be _extremely_ nice.

Ensconced in Mrs. Hudson’s flat, all of them together, at least 3 of the 4 inhabitants intent on being happy and making the most of a bad situation, the atmosphere was comfortable. Warm and cozy. Mrs. Hudson found an old steamer kettle to make tea with and John rigged out the fireplace for it, sorting through the complicated ironworks which had been shoved in a closet and forgotten about for over 20 years. Sherlock watched from the sofa, a restraining arm holding Rosie to keep her from dashing over and playing with dangerous things. They both avidly watched John curse and thump the metal pieces around, earning occasional dark looks.

“You could help, you know.”

“What for? You’re doing fine on your own, John.”

“ _Fine_? This what you call fine? You’ve sat there the last ten minutes and watched me make a complete cock-“

“Lucky I didn’t give this away like I meant to. I don’t know what we would have done for tea.” Mrs. Hudson breezed in, stepping between them. She pointed at the piece John had left out, instructing him how to place it in the fireplace, and then handed him the kettle. “I thought that I should have done, but it was lucky I didn’t. Wasn’t it?”

“Serendipity at its finest.” Sherlock said dryly, and Mrs. Hudson rounded on him.

“Don’t take that tone with me, Sherlock Holmes. You’re not the only one who had other plans today. If that’s the way you’re going to behave, you can just go right back upstairs if you don’t want to be here. No one’s forcing you. Go on. Go upstairs and freeze your bollocks off- _Oh_!” Mrs. Hudson covered her mouth, eyes going wide, and gave John an apologetic look. “Sorry, John. I didn’t mean to-“

“No, it’s fine. I’ve…well. It’s hard watching what you say all the time. Especially when you get angry. Understandable.”

“Still. I don’t want to swear in front of Rosie. I’ll try and do better from now on.” She vowed. “But I meant what I said.” She snapped, giving Sherlock a stern look. It was softened by the fact that everyone in the room knew she didn’t actually want him to leave the flat and go back upstairs, and would probably stop him if he tried to. The message, however, was clear.

“It is…very warm- down here.” Sherlock managed, lips jerking in a shy smile, and Mrs. Hudson beamed at him.

“It’ll be fun, dear. I promise.” She handed him a blanket to wrap around his shoulders. “Whatever lovely thing you and John had planned can wait- it’s not every day you get an opportunity like this. Snugged in with your family and roughing it. Reminds me of the time my mother and I were snowed in…”

While Mrs. Hudson reminisced, checking the kettle, Sherlock watched John pace closer. He lifted his face up in what he hoped was passable request for a kiss while at the same time conveying how sorry he was for not helping. John still looked annoyed, but the tightness around his eyes went soft, and he dipped down and gave Sherlock his kiss before muttering against his lips-

“Git.”

* * *

 

The water took a while to heat, but afterwards everyone agreed it was some of the best tea they’d had in a while. There was just something special about making it in such an old-fashioned way. An hour later and there was still no power, so for dinner, they wrapped potatoes in aluminum foil and used tongs to place them in the fire to roast. Another slow process. Mrs. Hudson suggested Sherlock go and get his violin while they waited to keep them entertained.

Stepping out of the flat and into the chilly foyer was shocking, but more so was how cold it was upstairs despite the fire they’d left crackling in the hearth. Sherlock stoked it and added a few more logs- when the power did come back on they would need the heat- and grabbed his violin from the stand in front of the window.

He was halfway across the floor when he paused as, downstairs, he heard John’s raucous laughter, loud and happy accompanied by Rosie’s answering scream.

His feet couldn’t carry him fast enough back downstairs.

* * *

 

The potatoes were ready by the time Sherlock finished his impromptu Christmas concerto and from some cupboard a bottle of wine was unearthed and put to good use. They sat around the fire, wrapped in blankets and eating their potatoes, Rosie cozily held in Sherlock’s lap, hidden under his blanket, napping.

“What’re yours and Sherlock’s plans for New Year’s?” Mrs. Hudson offered John another pat of butter which he took with a smile of thanks. “It’s only a few days away, you know.”

Sherlock didn’t need reminding. Last New Year’s, he had sat alone in the flat, Mrs. Hudson gone to a friend’s, and listened to crackers and fireworks and happy cheering all down the street. John and Mary had gone to one of her friend’s parties. She’d told Sherlock so when she rang him to discuss how busy she and John had been, and how it would probably be mid-January before they saw each other. Sherlock hadn’t been invited to their party. John hadn’t texted him once. He’d never felt lonelier.

“Mm.” John glanced at Sherlock who stared blankly back, trying not to let any of his emotions show. “We…haven’t really discussed it. I suppose we could go to one of the parties. If you want, I mean. Maybe see the fireworks? I guess I’d thought…we’d just…do what we used to? Stay at the flat? Have some wine- I guess that’s boring but- “

“I’d _love_ that, John.”

John’s eyes sparkled at Sherlock in the firelight, thoughts passing between them that didn’t need to be spoken.

“Do you have big plans?” John finally asked, realizing it’d be rude not to ask. Mrs. Hudson shook her head.

“Oh, no. Once you get to be my age, you don’t go in for all of that- parties and things. It’s not fun, just tiring. I think I’ll just have a quiet do at home. Maybe have Mrs. Turner over for drinks.”

“And I suppose the two of you will be discussing your tenants extensively.”

Mrs. Hudson tittered at Sherlock’s accusation, but didn’t deny it. “The woman’s been insufferable, bragging about her married ones. Now I have something proper to tell her.”

John sat on the sofa beside Sherlock and leaned against him, a warm body pressed all along his side. His head dropped onto Sherlock’s shoulder and he snuffled, closing his eyes, clearly tired and ready to take a nap. Sherlock held still as John’s breaths became deep and even, holding a sleeping Watson in his lap and supporting another besides. It was nice. More than nice.

It had been, he realized with a jolt, a truly excellent day.

* * *

 

All the lights blazing on at three in the morning startled them awake. The hum of the electric returning was a disconcertingly loud background noise. John jerked upright on the sofa, then stopped, hissing, as the kink in his back sent agony racing along his spine.

Not as young as I used to be, he thought wryly, but felt somewhat better- and guilty- when he saw Sherlock slowly unfurling himself from the lie-low with a pained wince. Maybe he wasn’t the only one getting along in years.

He and Sherlock rubbed the sleep from their eyes, sniffing and blinking as they gathered up their things to make the arduous trip back upstairs. Rosie slept on, unaware that anything had changed. John was loathe to wake her. It would still be an hour or more before the heat managed to dispel the lingering cold which had taken up residence upstairs. He and Sherlock could withstand a little cold, but John didn’t like the idea of taking their little girl back upstairs into the freezing temperatures.

“Oh. Let her stay down here.” Mrs. Hudson whispered, sensing John’s reluctance and flapping a hand when he stooped to pick Rosie up. “Just move her to my bed. She and I will have a little sleep over. Then you can come and get her later this morning- or I’ll bring her up if she starts to fuss.”

John demurred, not wanting to impose, but they all three knew it was the best thing to do. He carried Rosie, limp and smelling sleep-sweet, into Mrs. Hudson’s room. He settled her in the warm bed, and gave her a quick kiss on the top of her head.

“If you’re sure it’s no trouble-“ He started again, but Mrs. Hudson waved him off.

“You know it’s not. Now go on. Get some rest. Make sure that one does too.” She nodded to where Sherlock was still rubbing tiredly at his face, and John smiled.

“Will do.”

* * *

 

They stole up the stairs on quiet feet, unwilling to break the unearthly silence that held the flat in its grip at so early of a morning. There was something sacred about it, a hush the flat normally never saw, and since tonight there were no shadows they had to face, they both rather liked it.

Sherlock shuddered as he undressed, peeling away his layers of clothing and darting sneaky glances at John while he did the same. His eyes flicked up and down his body as more and more skin was revealed- then covered up again in a disappointing way when John pulled on a light jumper to sleep in. Logical. It was very cold. Sherlock pulled on his own pajamas. The bedroom was cold as ice and they both hissed and winced when they climbed under the duvet. The sheets were frozen and Sherlock’s skin prickled uncomfortably, every hair standing at attention in a painful rush. He twisted, wanting to get away from it, forcibly reminded of swimming lessons as a child and being shoved into the water before he was ready, the water so cold his limbs seized up.

“Come here.” John’s encouragement wasn’t needed- Sherlock was already rolling closer to him, seeking out his warmth. He scooted into John’s arms which wrapped around him and he nestled into John’s chest, throwing his arms around his waist as he did. They clung to each other, shivering as they slowly warmed.

“Might have been better to stay downstairs.” John said. “Even having to sleep on the sofa. Should have known it would be cold as buggering fuck up here.”

Sherlock sniffed, sticking his cold nose to John’s neck which had the dual benefit of warming it, and allowing him to smell John’s sleep warm and musky scent, sweat and soap, which he loved. “Mm. Sleeping accommodations are better upstairs, I think.”

“True.” John’s hand chafed up and down Sherlock’s back, creating a pleasant friction, and Sherlock closed his eyes to relish the touch. He’d hoped they would have sex tonight- especially after John told him he had some sort of a plan- but they were both tired and it was cold. Nevertheless, he loved the way John touched him and-

John’s hands unexpectedly moved lower, cupping Sherlock’s arse and pulling him closer so their groins were aligned and all thoughts of sleep were driven from Sherlock’s head. “I know a way we could get warm.” John whispered, and it sounded so _filthy_ when he said it that way. Murmuring his suggestion against Sherlock’s ear in the darkness while his hand did distracting things.

Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat, then picked up in double time as he thought of all the different meanings implied, and all the pleasurable ways he and John could warm each other up. He licked his lips, accidentally grazing John’s neck in the process, and John’s breath caught, his cock twitching, before he asked-

“What would you like?”

Sherlock thought fast. It was difficult. There were _so many_ things he would like.

They could tug their pants down just low enough to frot against each other, movement and friction and sharing humid breaths which would create lots of heat. Or, they could duck beneath the duvet and suck each other off, sprawled all over and getting sweaty from exertion and the stifling weight of the duvet. Touching each other while they kissed and rolled and grinded.

It was all dazzlingly tempting. Sherlock didn’t know which he would prefer.

“What would you like?” He countered, expecting John to politely volley the question back, and he was already disappointed that John wouldn’t tell him what he wanted. He would leave it all up to Sherlock as he usually did. Which was nice. But.

Well. Simply _but_.

John hummed thoughtfully, fingers tracing patterns on Sherlock’s back. “You really want to know what I want?”

Oh. This was different. Sherlock’s breath caught and sweet, excited anticipation settled in his stomach. “Yes.”

“Really? You really, really want to know?” John teased, and Sherlock growled, grasping at him and earning himself a smacking kiss to his cold cheek which made him giggle, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Are you sure? You really want to know?” John laughed at him and Sherlock gave him another shove, wondering how they’d gone from being on the verge of having sex to teasing each other like schoolboys. He didn’t know, but he enjoyed it.

“Yes!”

“All right.” John leaned closer and kissed beneath Sherlock’s ear, murmuring his request against his skin. “I want you to fuck me.”

Sherlock’s eyes flared wide. He tried not to gasp at the unexpected request but didn’t quite manage it. Whatever he’d expected John to say, it hadn’t been that. Not in all his best deductions could he have ever…

He could feel himself flushing, the heat starting in his cheeks and traveling all the way down his chest. Then, even further down, down, down…

“I…”

That was… He’d never…

Of course it wasn’t difficult. Complete oafs could and did manage to perform the act on a regular basis. It was just… He had never…

And now John wanted…

It wasn’t beyond the scope of his capabilities, Sherlock reasoned as the silence stretched between them. He knew the basic mechanics of the act. Lubricant usage. Proper preparation. And then…

Sherlock fervently wished he had anticipated this scenario and preplanned. Researched proper sexual techniques so that when the time came he could please John. It’d crossed his mind a few times that this was something John may eventually want. However, he hadn’t expected it to be so soon- or so all of a sudden- and he was entirely unprepared to-

To-

“Of course,” John nuzzled at Sherlock’s neck, keeping his voice deliberately light and without any sign of recrimination or disappointment. That more than anything calmed Sherlock. “If you’d rather not, we can-”

“No! _No_. No, we…we can.” Sherlock stammered, verbally tripping over himself in his haste to reassure John. John’s lips paused over his racing pulse. “That is…if. If that’s what you really…want?”

“God, yes.” Was John’s fervent and Sherlock blinked rapidly at him in the dark, heart hammering in his chest. He licked dry lips, trying to think of what to say. How to tell John. He didn’t know how to begin.

“Give anything to know what’s going on in that head of yours.” John pressed kisses to Sherlock’s jaw and he twitched. It was too distracting. His thoughts were already so scattered that arranging them was like trying to gather fluttering leaves in a hurricane.

_“I want you to fuck me.”_

Oh god.

_“I want you to fuck me.”_

“You’ve done that before.” Sherlock blurted. He immediately wanted to take the words back when John went still against him.

“Yes.” He said cautiously, not sure where Sherlock was going with that particular fact. That made two of them. Sherlock didn’t know either. “Admittedly it’s been a few years but…” John cleared his throat. “Is…that a problem?”

Of course it wasn’t a problem. Why would John think it was?

“No. But it’s only- I…haven’t.” Sherlock wanted to cover his mouth to keep anything else embarrassing from spilling out.

“Mm. Kind of figured that.”

Idiot. Of course he had. Stupid. John knew all about Sherlock’s lack of sexual experience. They had discussed it. He didn’t need it spelled out again.

“I know you haven’t, love…and I’m not trying to rush you into anything if you don’t feel ready.” John turned Sherlock’s head up to him. “That’d be the last thing I want to do. I just thought….you’ve enjoyed almost everything else we’ve done. Yeah?”

“Yes.” Of course he had. John knew that. Despite a few slip-ups here and there, his entire time with John had been fantastic.

“Well. I thought you might enjoy this too- because I know I would- but this isn’t just about me and-“

“I want to.” Sherlock confessed in a soft whisper. “I really do.”

“Okay. That’s…good. But…what else is wrong?”

There was nothing else for it. Sherlock didn’t want to ruin the moment. John’s mood for sex would probably evaporate afterwards. But it was important to say-

“What if…what if I can’t…ever…” He trailed off suggestively. He knew John followed what he meant. Reciprocation was important in a healthy sexual relationship and John had been respectful of all Sherlock’s limits. In this however, Sherlock was adrift. Wasn’t it good manners to… _switch_? What if he couldn’t? Would John resent him? Would he be depriving John of a certain type of pleasure?

And the fact of the matter was that he wanted to do that with John. Very much.

It was only he didn’t know if he was actually able to. Not mentally, anyway.

John shrugged, carding his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and Sherlock allowed himself to relax into the touch. “Then you don’t. It’s only a problem if we make it one, Sherlock, and in all honesty, between you and me- I wouldn’t mind. It’s not a big deal. Didn’t say you had to do that. Ever. I don't want you to ever do something you don't want."

Sherlock took a deep breath. “John…”

He stalled and wished for his mobile and thirty minutes alone so he could research anal sex and become the best possible lover. He didn’t think John would wait that long, and in truth, Sherlock didn’t want to wait that long either.

He wanted to…with John.

Now. Tonight.

While he was waffling, though, John came to a sudden decision.

“Actually,” He sat up and leaned over Sherlock. “I’ve changed my mind. That’s not what I want after all.”

“Oh.” Sherlock tried not to sound disappointed. “Okay. That’s- fine.” He was disappointed. He should be glad of the reprieve because this gave him time to conduct adequate research into the topic but he was still surprisingly let down that John had changed his mind.

That was neither here nor there, he sternly told himself. Sex wasn’t just about him, and John had been incredibly generous in that particular area. It was like John said. _Neither_ of them needed to do anything they didn't want. Sherlock was more than willing to reciprocate _that_ to John, and he was sure that whatever else John wanted to do would be just as pleasurable and they would both enjoy it.

“What…what would you like?”

John’s fingertip traced over his lips, eliciting tingles that made Sherlock’s breath catch, before kissing him softly. “Make love to me.”


	30. Day 30- Shared Body Heat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I deleted this chapter, underwent heavy edits, and am now reposting. I was never fully happy with the way I handled John and Sherlock's first time, but I am fully satisfied now.
> 
> I hope everyone enjoys, and I should post the final chapter (!) in the next few weeks. In time for Christmas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is back!
> 
> I deleted the original Chapter 30 because I wasn't happy with it and have spent the last few days doing heavy rewrites and edits. I hope everyone likes the changes that were made.

The origins of the phrase “make love” come from the Old Occitan and Middle French languages. It was first used in the English language in the late 16th century and has since evolved and taken on many different meanings and connotations.

The modern definition of “make love” is-

_‘a phrase of love; to have a profoundly tender and passionate affection for another person, the connotation of which is to ‘have sexual intercourse’ with that person’_

Otherwise known as to: engage in coitus.

Shag

Sleep with

Copulate

Fuck

_Another_ definition of the phrase, an admittedly dated one (from the humble Old Occitan and Middle French origins) is slightly different.

This definition is-

_‘to pay amorous attention to someone; used in an attempt to woo the object of one’s affections.’_

And doesn’t have to do with just getting someone into bed. The connotations hearken back to the idea of courtly love, wherein a deep, abiding love was shared between two people. Their relationship was generally unconsummated, but they shared all the intimacy that was possible for two people to share: Friendship. Trust. Loyalty. Acceptance. Understanding. Companionship. Independence. Respect. Happiness. Love.  

From the very first moment they met, Sherlock made love to John.

Not overtly or in the way everyone thought he was (which dealt more with the modern definition of the phrase “make love”, implying that the general populace of London thought they were fucking). But Sherlock made love to John in different ways, most of which were indiscernible to the casual observer.

Everyone gets so caught up in sex, sex, sex- who’s having it with who and where and when and how often- that they never stop to realize people can make love in other, more innocent ways. They’re all so obsessed about bumping uglies that they never understand that there’s so much _more_.

Making love.

Paying amorous attention to the object of one’s affections in an attempt to woo them.

If there was one thing Sherlock Holmes knew how to do well, it was woo the object of his affections: John Watson.

John wanted excitement. Out-of-the-ordinary thrills. Danger. To experience the unusual absurdities of life. All of which Sherlock could, and did, give him. All those things were par for the course if one lived with Sherlock Holmes. He used his deductions to impress John with his brilliance, to lure him in and make him want to stay. He made John laugh at his macabre humor which no one else but John could appreciate. Sherlock freely admitted John into his private sphere, welcomed him, and John appreciated the rare honor of that distinction and…was flattered.

John had a driving need to feel useful, to know that he wasn’t wasting his life and that he had important contributions to make. Sherlock went out of his way to prove just how valuable John was to him. He asked John for advice, guidance, medical acumen, a second opinion, deductions. He relied on John unquestioningly, and used his assistance to solve their cases (as much as he could, that is, because John, bless him, did not always make the best deductions). Sherlock asked him all the same. Besides his intelligence (and yes, John Watson had intelligence- in his own way- which Sherlock was more than happy to highlight and underscore and make bold), John was protective. He wanted to safeguard the things and people he loved and so Sherlock defiantly stared danger in the face on more than one occasion, unafraid, because he knew John was protecting him. John who was always at his side, a short ball of fury and violence, ready to do whatever was necessary to defend Sherlock.

Sherlock let John know that he was useful. Needed. Important. Funny. Necessary. Intelligent. Honorable…

The two of them dashed about in the dark of London, adrenaline surging, hearts pumping, chasing criminals and bringing wrongdoers to justice. They daringly risked their lives and at the end of the night, they leaned against each other in the back of an ambulance, or a cab, or at their booth at Angelo’s, or the stairwell of 221B, and laughed. Giddy with the high of it all and the fact that they had survived.

They spent late nights spent together. Shared meals. Investigated cases. Told morbid jokes. Giggled in inappropriate places over inappropriate things. Consumed endless cups of tea. Sacrificed. Proved their loyalty. Demonstrated an odd type of affection, insulting and calling each other names.

They patched each other up (usually Sherlock) after close of calls, and Sherlock was obedient as he took his angry lecture from John on the stupid, bloody risks he’d taken. He allowed the doctor to call him eight different kinds of an idiot as he lectured, barely pausing to draw breath, knowing that John needed to work out his scared frustration…but the entire time John yelled and fumed at him, his hands were gentle. He wiped away blood and patched Sherlock up with a tenderness that belied his anger.

Sherlock made love to John.

He let John into his life. He showed John how amazing and fun and wonderful and exhilarating life could be. He reminded John what he had to live for- and unknowingly gave him a new reason for living…but it was a long time before that was something Sherlock realized. It was the two of them against the rest of the world, sharing a deep and abiding friendship-

-which leads nicely back into the first definition of the phrase “make love”:

_‘to have sexual intercourse with someone’_

Because, as long as undue importance isn’t placed on it, and sexual intercourse is not treated as the be all and end all in a relationship when it comes to expressions of love, sex can be very, very nice. It can be just as nice as paying amorous attention to the object of one’s affections in an attempt at wooing them.

And when one gets to do both?

That’s incredible.

* * *

 

“Actually,” John sat up and leaned over Sherlock. “I’ve changed my mind. That’s not what I want after all.”

“Oh.” Sherlock tried not to sound disappointed. “Okay. That’s- fine.”

He was disappointed. He should be glad of the reprieve because this gave him time to conduct adequate research into the topic of homosexual anal intercourse, but he was still surprisingly let down that John had changed his mind.

That was neither here nor there, he told himself. Sex wasn’t just about him, and John had been incredibly generous in that particular area. It was like John said. Neither of them needed to do anything they didn't want. Sherlock was sure that whatever else John wanted to do would be just as pleasurable and they would both enjoy it.

“What would you like?”

John’s fingertip traced over his lips, eliciting tingles that made Sherlock’s breath catch, before kissing him softly. “Make love to me.”

Oh. Yes. Yes, _that_.

That was what Sherlock wanted. He could do that.

_“I want you to fuck me.”_

That request had been nicely obscene but while succinct and suitably graphic, it did absolutely nothing for Sherlock. It was somewhat arousing because John said it, Sherlock conceded, but when it came to actually doing such a thing…Sherlock was ambivalent. Fucking was so detached. Impersonal. Unemotional. Fucking meant sticking one’s cock in someone else’s hole and fucking until either one, or both, partners achieved orgasm. People didn’t have to like each other to fuck.

And in a distant way, it made Sherlock think about…it reminded him of…such words could be applied to…

_“Make love to me.”_

But when John put it _that_ way…

All the anxious noise in Sherlock’s head which had started when John asked to be fucked, quieted. It receded to the background. The gnawing fear that he’d be bad at anal sex and the nervousness that he wouldn’t measure up to John’s former sexual partners, the nebulous men with whom John had shared this with, and that he’d entirely fail to satisfy John, would come too quickly because of the novelty of the experience, and John would then be left hard and disappointed but smiling and telling Sherlock that it was fine-

It all vanished.

_“Make love to me.”_

It was so peaceful, the idea of making love to John. It’d be so easy. It wasn’t animalistic fucking without passion or warmth or mutual adoration. It wouldn’t be something Sherlock had no experience with. He knew how to make love to John.

“You asked me what I wanted and…that’s what I’d really like. You. Me. Together.” John shrugged. “Making love.”

Sherlock’s heart, which had been rapidly beating in panic from the distressing prospect of fucking John skipped-

-then picked up at a fast, excited pace.

_“Make love to me.”_

Yes. Yes, John.

“I guess it’s a bit hackneyed.” John continued when Sherlock still didn’t say anything, laughing awkwardly. Some of the happy light in his eyes dimmed. Sherlock frowned. What? What was wrong? What had he done? “It was um…Well. It was a stupid thing for me to say. I know it was. Forget it. Really. We can do something else. Anything you want. It’s not-“

Sherlock cut off John’s nervous rambling with a kiss, fisting his hands in the soft wool of John’s jumper. “I’d love to do that, John.” He whispered, his confession the barest of sounds because this, what he and John were doing, was extremely private. Just the two of them in the quiet darkness of their bedroom. “There’s nothing wrong with it. I’d love to make love to you.”

John blinked at him before his face broke into a relieved smile. Sherlock marveled that John had actually doubted this was something he’d want. “You’re sure? You’re not just…I dunno…Saying that to spare my feelings? Because I won’t be offended-“

Sherlock kissed John again. He’d observed in the past that it was a very effective way of making John stop talking and this time was no different. Sherlock thrilled at the idea that from now on he’d always be able to make John shut up by giving him kisses. He fully intended to make John angry more often just so he would have a reason to kiss him.

John sighed and Sherlock felt the rest of the tension in his body- silly, John, Sherlock rolled his eyes fondly- seep away.

“I want you.” John’s voice wobbled, and Sherlock’s heart cracked, just a little. “But really…it’s fine, Sherlock. Anything’s fine. I want you, not…not anything…else.”

Sherlock knew that. John didn’t need to remind him. It was sweet of him just the same. He kissed John’s cheek. “I want you more.” He teased, nipping at John’s earlobe. “I want you so much, John.” He murmured against John’s skin, wanting to imbue the words into John’s pores so that he would always carry a reminder of Sherlock’s love. “I’ve always wanted you.”

“Sherlock…”

_“Make love to me.”_

“I love you.” Sherlock kissed John’s neck, stubble prickling his lips, the sucking sound nicely erotic in the quiet haven of their bedroom…but he was stymied when he unexpectedly reached the neckline of John’s jumper. Sherlock blinked, disoriented. He’d actually forgotten- in the excitement of getting to make love to John- the multiple layers they’d both put on before climbing into bed, bracing themselves against the chill as they hunkered beneath the duvet.

John reached to pull the jumper over his head. Sherlock, indignant, slapped his hands away. “What-?”

“You asked me to make love to you, John.”

“Yeah, but-“

“So I’m supposed to remove your clothes.” Sherlock may not fully understand the minute details of having sex, but he did know the correct order of things. John looked pleased and made a show of taking his hands away, holding them out to the sides.

“Do whatever you want, love.”

Sherlock gave him a mischievous smile. He intended to.

He slipped his hands beneath the fabric of John’s jumper, fingers skimming along warm skin and kneading the muscles in John’s back before spanning over the expanse of his sides, stopping just short of his nipples. He could feel John breathe, his lungs expanding beneath his ribs, and his respiration noticeably increased as he waited for Sherlock to complete the route. Sherlock let the moment lengthen, anticipation settling sweetly through their kiss…

He skated his fingertips over John’s nipples, feather light. They were already hard and Sherlock momentarily wondered if it was from his touch or just the coldness of the room- but when he touched them, John hissed, his nipples pebbling even further.

Oh.

Sherlock repeated the action. He did it again and again until John was moaning, breaths huffing between them as they kissed and his skin was covered in gooseflesh which had nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with Sherlock’s touch.

“I want you.” Sherlock whispered, and John pulled away to rest his forehead against Sherlock’s.

“Then have me.”

* * *

 

They did their best to stay beneath the covers while struggling out of their clothes. Even though the electricity was back and the radiator humming, the room was frigid. It wouldn’t be properly warmed for hours yet and they fumbled in the small space beneath the duvet to avoid exposure. It made everything feel naughty. Clandestine. Shimmying together on the bed, eyes bright and eager, shedding the rest of their clothes.

As soon as the last piece of clothing was flung to the floor, Sherlock twined himself around John as much as he could. He couldn’t get close enough. Kissing John while naked was divine and pleasure went off like fireworks in the pit of Sherlock’s stomach. He cupped John’s face, deepening their kiss and trying to get even closer, hooking a leg over John’s hip.

“Yes, love.” John murmured nonsensically, rocking against Sherlock, pushing his cock against him. John was hard and Sherlock didn’t think he would ever grow tired of feeling or seeing proof that John was aroused because of _him_. John gently tipped Sherlock over, and Sherlock’s breath caught when John settled over him, drawing him into another kiss that was much more heated. John ground against him and Sherlock pushed up, sliding their cocks together. It was too dry and there was too much friction and Sherlock knew they couldn’t do it for very long, but that made it all the better.

“I want you.” He breathed into their kiss, and John kissed him hard enough to bruise, before pressing gentler kisses against his chin, down his neck…

“Yes.”

More kisses down the center of his chest. Wet tongue laving over each nipple, making Sherlock arch.

“I w-want you.”

Across his stomach. John’s tongue dipping into his belly button just to make Sherlock giggle. Sherlock threaded his fingers through John’s hair as he moved further down. Sucking kisses to his iliac crest. Down. Wetness laved along his abdomen. Down.

“I want you…John...I…I want you…”

“God, yes, love. Want you too…”

Sherlock’s breath caught when John drew the tip of his cock into his mouth. It was intense, still new enough that Sherlock squirmed, his hips bucking when John swirled his tongue over the head, taking it in his mouth.

John’s hands were on his thighs, spreading Sherlock’s legs, making room for himself between them, and Sherlock let his eyes close, pleasure rippling through his body like waves. There was no rush. No frenetic thrusting and race to orgasm. It was just the two of them, and Sherlock let himself be pleasured by John, be the center of all John’s focus and love. It was where Sherlock always wanted to be.

“I want you.”

John moaned around his cock in agreement, bobbing his head, letting Sherlock’s cock glide along his tongue and brush against the soft palate at the back of his throat.

“Oh god, John…I’ve never stopped…wanting you…”

John’s fingernails scored the sensitive flesh of Sherlock’s spread thighs and tingles spread through his lower body, streaking down his legs. John did it again, mouth hot and wet on his cock.

It was too much.

Sherlock hooked his fingers beneath John’s chin and lifted him off his cock, tugging him back up his body so they could kiss. He could taste himself on John’s lips. “I want you.”

_“Make love to me.”_

Sherlock reversed their positions, flipping John onto his back without breaking their kiss. John’s hands were at his hips, his legs spread, and Sherlock settling between them, their cocks brushing against each other. John frotted against him, and Sherlock’s eyes slipped closed at the mounting pleasure, sinking down so he could kiss John which turned everything into a wonderful, keen ache.

They could have had this for so many years, Sherlock thought, rolling his hips, his cock wet from John’s saliva and easing the way. The knowledge was bittersweet. It brought a pang of sadness that they’d wasted so much time when all along this was how it could have been between them.

But no.

That wasn’t right.

Sherlock stopped moving, eyes flying open at his sudden deduction, and John, not realizing anything was amiss, continued his urgent grind, trails of precome smearing between them.

If he and John had gotten together years ago, before all the heartbreak and suffering and pain and tragedy…their relationship wouldn’t have been like this. At all. They’d been younger back then. Fresher. Green. Yes, they’d already been touched by tragedy and pain, but nothing compared to what they’d go through over the ensuing five years.

So much had happened to them since their first meeting at Bart’s. Their first dinner at Angelo’s. Their first case filled with exhilaration and danger and murderous cabbies and laughter. They’d lived different lives. Became different people. Came together and fallen apart and then found their way back to each other again.

If he and John had gotten together years ago, they’d be such different people, Sherlock realized. Every touch they shared wouldn’t be sweetly painful, tinged with sadness for everything they’d gone through…but filled with hopeful promises for their future. The shadows which haunted them wouldn’t have been so dark, and their insecurities wouldn’t have found such strong footholds, clinging tenaciously despite their best attempts.

He and John wouldn’t have suffered all the heartache and pain and death, the heartbreak and wrenching guilt. They wouldn’t have known what it was like to lose each other, and live without hope of a reunion. What it felt like to pine. Lose hope. Suffer depression. Life had irreversibly shaped and changed them. If he and John had gotten together years ago, they wouldn’t have what they did now.

And that, Sherlock grasped, would be horrific.

Because that meant he and John wouldn’t know how dear and precious those sweetly painful touches were, how treasured each kiss was. They’d be oblivious to the enormous price they’d paid for every single one of them, the sacrifices they’d made to be together. They’d be unaware of the depth of their love which had been tested and tried by fire and blood.

Which meant that, despite all the horrific, terrible, painful things that had happened, Sherlock wouldn’t change anything. Not one single thing.

This was how he wanted to be with John. With all their flaws and fucked up complexes and pain and fear and problems. With their hard fought-for love. With John’s daughter. With their individual darknesses but shared light.

“Sherlock…?” John asked, aware something was wrong only when Sherlock’s erection began flagging against him. “Are you-“

“I love you, John.” Sherlock wanted to put everything he’d suddenly realized into words, but that wasn’t what he was good at. The only words that could possibly come close to expressing what he wanted to say were- “I love you. And…I…I wouldn’t change one. Single. Thing. I wouldn’t. Not anything, John. I want you. Like this.” He clarified, in case John didn’t fully understand. “This is…perfect.”

John smiled and kissed him and Sherlock didn’t know if John really understood what he was trying to say or not, but John put a hand over his mouth when he tried to explain.

“It’s okay. Yeah? I know what you mean, and I…I can’t believe I get to have you, love.”

* * *

 

“Should’ve thought ahead, yeah?” John eyed the bottle of lube clutched in Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock silently agreed. The lubricant, which had been kept in their bedside table, was icy and congealed in the tube. Sherlock was sure that John didn’t look forward to having cold lube pushed inside of him, and Sherlock didn’t really look forward to putting it on his cock either.

“We can do something else.” He tipped the tube upside down, watching the sluggish slide with trepidation.

“S’fine.” John shrugged, unconcerned. Laid out on his back, cock hard and legs spread with Sherlock knelt between them, he was a pornographic vision. “It’ll warm up. Hold out your hand.” Sherlock surrendered the lubricant and John squeezed a cold dollop out onto his palm. It was so cold that it burned, but John instructed him to rub it in his hand and the friction of his fingers against his palm slowly warmed it up. The sound of the lubricant squishing in his hand was explicit with smutty promise, and when Sherlock looked up he found John watching him, eyes dark, tongue teasing out coquettishly to lick at his lips.

“Ready?”

Sherlock nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

John pulled his legs up and spread them further, giving Sherlock better access, and they both moaned when Sherlock’s finger eased inside- John because of the stretching burn of the intrusion, Sherlock from the unexpectedly tight clench of John’s body. It…he was…he hadn’t thought…

John was so _tight_.

He squeezed around Sherlock’s finger and everything suddenly seemed to slow down. Both their focuses narrowed to where Sherlock was touching John, rubbing his finger in and out of John’s body. Sherlock was utterly in love with the noises John made as he fingered him open, and he followed John’s whispered instructions, adding another finger (and more lube) and as he did. His cock pulsed between his thighs, fluid beading at the tip, and Sherlock did his best to ignore it.

He was afraid he'd come before he was even inside John, and he kept all of his concentration on his hands and what he was doing at that moment- studiously _not_ thinking of what he was about to do.

* * *

 

“What is it?”

John wouldn’t have thought he’d have the mental capacity for serious observation at the current moment. He was naked. Flat on his back. Body on full display. One leg hooked around Sherlock’s hip. Cock hard and being cleverly fondled by a gorgeous genuis. Sherlock’s long, elegant fingers were buried to the third knuckle in his arse. He was wet, rather uncomfortably open. He was about to get fucked by the man he’d been in love with for bloody years.

John was completely distracted.

Sherlock’s hand never stopped moving over his cock, and his fingers never stopped their thrust-thrust-stretch, thrust-thrust-stretch…

“Good?” Sherlock asked, as if he didn’t know, and John died inside. Just a little.

“ _Very_ good.”

Sherlock gave him a shy smile and did it again. And again. And God, John was more than ready to get to the truly excellent part of making love.

It was flattering, a huge fucking ego boost actually, how wide Sherlock’s eyes got when John asked if he could ride him.

“I…you. That’s-that’s what y-you’d like?”

John licked his lips, and Sherlock’s wide eyes dropped down to stare at that. Fuck yes. “Yeah. I really want to.” Sherlock cleared his throat, looking so adorably discomfited that John had to kiss him, then he had to tip him onto his back and follow him over, straddling Sherlock’s hips. “Of course…if you’d rather I not…”

“Yes! No! No, I mean. Yes. If that’s the way you’d like to…to make love.”

“Oh, yeah.” John loved having Sherlock like this, aroused because of what he was doing to him, almost speechless with want. He wasn’t above admitting that. “I’ve thought about riding your cock for ages.”

“You have not.” Sherlock sounded scandalized. And very aroused. John reached for the lube and, after doing his best to warm it in his hand, murmured a soft apology and grasped Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock cried out, spine bowing, watching John spread the lube over his cock with a stunned expression.

“I have thought about riding your cock a lot, actually. Having you like this. Getting your cock nice and hard and then riding you until you’re-“

Sherlock’s clean hand jumped down, pressing over John’s mouth. “Please, John. Please. Stop talking.”

John licked his palm and Sherlock gasped, jerking away. His cock was rock hard in John’s hand, and he wanted to tease…but knew not to push Sherlock too much. It was clear Sherlock was hanging on to his control by a thread, and John already knew he probably wouldn’t last that long anyway once they started. Not that John gave a flying fuck one way or the other how long it lasted. But he thought it would upset Sherlock if he came quickly. He didn’t want to make him do that on purpose.

“Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

“No.” John agreed, grinning. “I’m not. Is this still alright, though?”

Sherlock’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Y-yes.”

“Alright. Here.” John guided himself onto Sherlock’s cock and they both gasped when the head breached his body. John froze, letting himself adjust to the uncomfortable stretch and burn. It’d been ages since he’d done this, and he wasn’t used to it anymore. Sherlock was panting, watching John’s every move, but when John started to sink further down on his cock, he cried out and anxiously shut his eyes, hands fisting against John’s hips. “Sherlock? You alright?”

Sherlock sounded as if he were hyperventilating. “…yes.” His hands rubbed at John’s hips, anxious, and his mouth dropped open in a perfect “o” of pleasure once John was fully settled. He still didn’t open his eyes. “Oh, god, John…”

“Yeah.” John said distractedly, concentrating on relaxing. Sweat dotted along his hairline and he’d gone somewhat soft during the whole thing but he made Sherlock unclench a fist and forcibly steered Sherlock’s hand to his cock. Sherlock opened his eyes when he felt how soft John was. It was a bit of a mood killer.

“Are you-“

“Yeah. Fine. I’m fine. That just happens. Just…give me a second. It’s…just getting used to it. Always sort of uncomfortable at first. It’s not…I’m fine. Really.” Sherlock held himself very, very still, not even moving except for the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he struggled to breathe. John smiled at him, pushing Sherlock’s hair away from his face. “Alright yourself, love?”

Sherlock tried to speak and failed. He settled for nodding rapidly. John could feel Sherlock’s cock pulsing in his arse, in time to his frantic heartbeat, and it was one of the hottest things he’d ever experienced. They were supposed to be making love. That implied easy and slow. Deliberate and gentle. Coaxing their bodies gradually to shattering climaxes. But when John rocked his hips, raising up and then lowering himself back down on Sherlock’s cock in a cautious grind-

Sherlock made a choked, desperate noise that sent a punch of arousal straight to John’s cock…and all bets were off.

It was quick. Dirty. They were both too far gone. They’d taken forever to get to this point- literal years- and neither could wait any longer. John rocked atop Sherlock’s cock and the plaintive little cries forced from Sherlock’s throat with every thrust were gorgeous. Exquisite. The best fucking things John had ever heard. He shuddered, cursing, working himself harder and harder, building to a steady, frenetic rhythm, and then Sherlock’s fingers were stroking at his cock and John closed his eyes, his orgasm coalescing. Sherlock’s hips rose upward in a shivery grind.

“John…I…I want…John…can I-…I…”

“Whatever you want, love. God, whatever you want…” John promised rashly-

Then yelped when Sherlock unexpectedly surged up, fingers digging into his hips so hard that it hurt, and rolled John onto his back, following him over. His cock slipped from John’s arse and they both groaned in unison when he quickly thrust back inside. John wrapped his legs around Sherlock’s waist, entranced by the sight of him leaning over, face contorted in concentration as he gave a few disjointed thrusts. His rhythm was off. Lopsided. Awkward. There was a great deal of enthusiasm but not much technique…

“God, Sherlock…yes. Yes, love. Feels so good…here- like this…” John’s fingers squeezed at Sherlock’s hips, tugging him into a better rhythm than the uncomfortable, haphazard one Sherlock had been struggling with. Sherlock complied, concentrating on following John’s directions, sliding his cock inside, shuddering. His breath sobbed out…before he pulled out-out-out…and then John’s hands tugged him forward and he obediently snapped his hips, burying himself in John’s arse.

“Yes…oh, god. Perfect, Sherlock…that’s perfect…” John stroked his own cock feverishly, wanting to come because he could tell Sherlock was getting close. Very close. He wrapped his legs tighter around Sherlock’s waist, feeling his orgasm welling up at the base of his spine, taking his breath away, and Sherlock snapped his hips faster, face gorgeous and creased in pleasure. “Yes, love…come on, Sherlock-“

“I want you…I want you.” Sherlock mumbled with every thrust. “John. I want you…I want you…I want you…”

“Fuck- Sherlock. God…yes- fuck! I’m gonna come…oh, god don’t stop, love! Don’t stop- not yet!...I’m gonna come-“

Sherlock sobbed in obvious relief, and was only able to give two more short, sharp thrusts before he was coming as well, crying out with each pulse. He was shaky afterward, arms trembling, and John caught him as he literally collapsed. He giggled, tiredly scratching through Sherlock’s hair. They were both covered in lube and come and needed to get up and wash, but that could wait. He didn’t want to do or say anything that would ruin the mood, and he kissed at Sherlock’s lank, damp hair, licking at the salt left behind on his lips.

“John?”

“Mm? What, love?”

“This was a fantastic way to get ourselves warm.”

* * *

 

**The next morning**

The shops were crowded. New Year’s Eve was the day after tomorrow and people scattered everywhere, hurrying to get their party supplies- food and crackers and wine and champagne- before everything was bought out and they were stuck with off-brand items no one wanted. Navigating the crowds was treacherous, everyone rushing with single-minded determination, menacing as they aggressively pushed prams and trolleys, a manic look in their eyes as they politely shoved their way around.

Sherlock felt horribly claustrophobic.

He stood at the edge of a packed aisle in Tesco, waiting for John to choose which type of bread he wanted, gripping their shopping basket in a tight, white-knuckled grip. Sherlock couldn’t draw a proper breath. Everything was too overwhelming. There were too many people. Too many smells. Too many sounds. Colors that kaleidoscoped around him in a dizzying display. Too much sensory input.

Too much.

Too much.

Sherlock wanted to be back at the flat where there was peace and quiet and the loudest thing was Rosie crying.

“’Scuse me.” Someone shoved past him. Sherlock took a step back- and stumbled into an elderly woman’s trolley.

“Watch it, dear!”

“Sorry-“ He turned, trying to find a small island of calm in the sea of chaos. There wasn’t one.

Too much.

Too much.

“Here.” John placed the loaf of bread in their basket, smiling- then gave Sherlock a worried double-take. “Alright?”

No. “Yes.”

John stepped closer as an anxious, red-faced mother towing a line of children shoved her way into the aisle past them. “Sherlock…”

“I’m fine, John.” He didn’t want to talk about what was wrong in the middle of Tesco. “Just…finish the shopping so we can leave.”

“We can go back to the flat now.” John assured him in a low voice that, instead of soothing, grated on Sherlock’s already raw nerves. “It’s not a problem. I can come back later and get the rest of the shopping. We don’t have to-“

“Oh, for the love of-“ Sherlock spun away and almost tripped over a stray child. He wanted the trip to be over and done with. The sooner the better. Standing and talking wouldn’t solve anything. It just forced him to spend more time in the crushing, sensory overload. He staggered free of the crowd…but there wasn’t a free place for him to stand. There were too many people. They were everywhere. He couldn’t get away.

Sherlock looked around, trying to find a way out. It felt like his eyes were rolling, frightened and showing too much white like he’d seen a horse do once during a case. He wondered if it were noticeable. If everyone could see how panicked he was and guess the reason for it.

He gasped, spinning around again, aimless-

“Sherlock.” John laced their fingers together and took over, bossily steering them through the crowd. Sherlock followed behind meekly. “C’mon. We just need a few more things, then we can leave.”

“Thank you, John.” Sherlock couldn’t explain it, but this silly trip to Tesco meant so much to him and he didn’t want to run from it scared. He didn’t want to feel like a failure.

“No need to thank me, love. It’s me should be thanking you. I get to walk all over the store, showing off my trophy boyfriend.”

“You get to show off…your what?”

John gave him a devious smirk over his shoulder. “My trophy boyfriend. You’ve never heard of that?”

They stopped in the baking aisle to select the flour and spices Mrs. Hudson needed. John did it one-handed, not letting go of Sherlock for a second and Sherlock, gripping John’s hand tightly, wouldn’t have let him anyway.

“No.”

“A trophy boyfriend means you’re a hot, young thing that an old man like me gets to show off and make everyone jealous because I’m the one who gets to shag you.”

“You’re not old.” Sherlock clung to John’s hand as they made their way to the dairy section, dodging around trolleys and groups of people arguing over dinner plans.

“Ta.”

“You know what I mean. And I doubt anyone here is jealous if they think that you and I…that you get to…do…that. With me.”

John, plopping cartons of yogurt and cheese into their basket while Sherlock held it out obediently, gave him an incredulous look. “You really think that?”

Sherlock knew that. “Yes.”

“You’ve got no idea, love. Half the people in this place would leap at the chance-“

“John-“

“And after how amazing last night- and this morning- was, I can’t blame them.”

Sherlock’s blush was immediate. It blazed across his cheeks and heated his ears. He suddenly couldn’t look John in the eyes.

John chuckled. He towed Sherlock to the fresh produce section for potatoes and onions while Sherlock’s mind was accosted with memories from the previous night…and that morning.

He barely noticed John navigating their way through the crowd, not even aware as people jostled him, voices too loud and grating.

_“Make love to me.”_

Sherlock stared at John while he selected fresh herbs. There was a faint, reddish bruise at the very base of John’s throat. It drew Sherlock’s eyes, impossible to resist. The blush, which had faded somewhat, blazed into life again. Sherlock wouldn’t have gone out of the flat at all that morning if it hadn’t been for that bruise. John had asked Sherlock to go with him to Tesco over breakfast, but Sherlock hadn’t been able to pay proper attention…

* * *

**Earlier that morning**

“- asked me to go out for her. Said the cold from yesterday started her hip to hurting and it’d be too much for her to walk down the road. I don’t mind going. Not really. I mean. The day before New Year’s Eve it’ll be hell on earth actually- but Mrs. Hudson’s done so much for us. Least I could do was offer to get her shopping…” John trailed off, realizing Sherlock wasn’t listening to him. “Sherlock?”

When John spoke, the red patch of skin at the base of his neck moved just the slightest. Sherlock remembered the exact texture of that bit of skin. How it had felt in his mouth just hours ago. Sucking at it while John moaned with every grind of Sherlock’s hips-

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock tore his eyes away from John’s neck to find John himself looking at him, expectant. Sherlock panicked. For the life of him, he didn’t have a clue what John had been saying. He cleared his throat and tried to look attentive. “Yes. That’s fine.”

John’s eyes sparkled. He took a slow sip of tea. “What’s fine?”

“What?”

“What you just said. _What’s_ fine? Exactly?”

It’d been too much to hope that John would be his usual unobservant self. That could only mean he’d been saying something important, something he’d actually wanted Sherlock’s input about. Sherlock struggled, worried urgency fueling his attempt to remember what it was John had been saying. This may be his first relationship, but he knew it was considered a very bad thing to be inattentive when one’s partner was speaking. John in particular. He hated being ignored.

Nothing came to mind.

Helplessly, Sherlock’s eyes strayed back down to John’s neck. “You…it was, um…you were saying…”

“You weren’t paying attention to me.”

“Yes, I was.” Sherlock spotted another red mark on John’s neck, half-hidden by the collar of his shirt. He remembered that one too. He’d pulled John close at the end, not able to thrust properly because John’s legs were wrapped around his waist, but he’d still managed to push into John’s body, nudging his cock into the tight, slick heat, sucking the bruise on John’s neck while John encouraged him, hands gripping Sherlock’s hair…

“I- I was. I was listening. You were…um…” Sherlock had the sudden desire to trace over the bruises with his tongue. He thought John would like it. Especially if Sherlock continued down, licking at the bruises littered across John’s hips where Sherlock had held him just a bit too roughly last night. He’d been sorry about that. John had said he didn’t mind, but Sherlock would still kiss each one, tell John he was sorry again, and then take John’s cock into his mouth-

“Sherlock?”

Concentrate. Pay attention. Sherlock scolded himself. Stop getting distracted. What had John said? “You were talking…about…”

_“God, Sherlock…yes- fuck! I’m gonna come…oh, god don’t stop, love! Don’t stop- no, no! Not yet!...Please- I’m gonna come-“_

“New…Year’s…?” Sherlock’s throat was dry. He reached for his cup of tea. When he curled his fingers through the handle, an innocuous gesture, he was reminded of those same two fingers buried in John’s arse, curling inward as he searched for John’s prostate. John had been warm and tight, slick with lube while Sherlock prepared him-

“Mmhmm. Good. What else?”

Oh god. What else could there possibly be? What else? Sherlock licked his lips, thinking fast.

“That it’s…the day after tomorrow…”

Wasn’t it? A quick glance at the calendar confirmed his suspicion. Sherlock groped for more. What else would John have said about New Year’s?

“And?”

“And…and since it’s so soon…you were saying that…we needed…to…get some things…to celebrate…with…”

“You’re guessing!” John accused, and even though he was right, Sherlock took immediate offense.

“I am not!” John had absolutely no proof that he was guessing. And clearly Sherlock had guessed correctly, which negated any possible proof John may think he had that Sherlock had been inattentive. “You were talking about getting supplies because we still haven’t purchased any for the thing you wanted to have here on New Year’s Eve.”

Sherlock was confident that if John had been talking about New Year’s, he’d mentioned their lack of supplies for the party. It was John’s idea: wanting to have a small get-together, a cozy homage to past New Year’s Eves which he and Sherlock had always spent together. Sherlock, despite his general aversion, hadn’t wanted to discourage John. He was too happy about it. Besides, Sherlock liked the way John had gone about inviting people:

“Sherlock and I are having a little thing at the flat…”

“Oh, you should come! Yeah. Sherlock and I…”

“Sherlock and I…”

“Me and Sherlock…”

“We’d love for you to come…yeah, we think it’ll be great…”

This year, he and John were “we”. Sherlock was John’s boyfriend. John wouldn’t be bringing anyone else and so Sherlock could relax and enjoy himself. He wouldn’t have to devote all his time and energy to being irritating in the hopes of getting rid of whatever tedious girlfriend John had invited, hoping he would be forced to watch them kiss at midnight. This year, Sherlock would get to kiss John at the stroke of midnight. It was a pleasant idea.

John sat forward, drumming his fingers on the table-

_“God, Sherlock…yes. Yes, love. Feels so good…here- like this…” John’s fingers squeezed at Sherlock’s hips, tugging him into a better rhythm than the awkward, haphazard one Sherlock had been struggling with. Sherlock complied, concentrating on following John’s directions, sliding his cock inside the clench of John’s body, shuddering once he was all the way inside. His breath sobbed out…before he pulled out-out-out…and then John’s hands tugged him forward and he obediently snapped his hips, burying himself inside- John groaned, closing his eyes. “Yes…oh, god. Perfect, Sherlock…that’s perfect…”_

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock realized he’d been staring at John for the past minute. His mouth open. Not saying anything. Lost in perverted thought. “Um…” He frowned, not knowing how to possibly get himself out of the situation, and a slow, knowing smile spread over John’s face. He licked his lips-

Sherlock blushed and looked away. “Stop it, John.”

“Stop what?” John was all innocence. Butter wouldn’t have melted in his mouth. John’s mouth-

No. No. That was not helping. No. Do not think of John’s mouth.

Or tongue.

“Doing that.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

Sherlock ignored this blatant lie.

He pretended to be absorbed in his breakfast and finally John dropped it, snorting and pushing away from the table to dump his tea in the sink. Sherlock used the opportunity to gather himself, trying to marshal his thoughts into some semblance of order after the chaos last night had left them in.

“You’re so gorgeous when you’re embarrassed.” John murmured, breath gusting warm against Sherlock’s ear and sending a shudder down his spine.

“I’m not embarrassed.” The veracity of that assertion was severely undermined when Sherlock’s voice shook as he made it.

John ignored this blatant lie.

Sherlock let him tug and pull and manhandle him about until he was turned sideways in his chair and John was settling into his lap, straddling him in a highly evocative way, legs splayed to either side of Sherlock’s thighs. His hands automatically came up to hold John to keep him from falling backwards and as a reward John drew him into a kiss that was extremely salacious for so early in the morning.

“What are you embarrassed about?” John nuzzled against Sherlock’s neck, pressing kisses where his pulse hammered. Beneath his ear. The hinge of his jaw. All the places he’d discovered Sherlock loved to be kissed. Sherlock let his eyes slide closed to better appreciate John’s attention.

“I can’t stop thinking.”

“About?” John’s tongue teased along the outer shell of his ear. Another shudder stole down Sherlock’s spine. His hands spasmed on John’s hips, drawing him closer. John had to shuffle awkwardly to rearrange himself, but didn’t protest.

“Last night.”

“What about last night?” John brushed their lips together. Once. Twice. The very barest of touches, meant to tantalize. Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat.

“I…how you…”

“How I…what?” John traced Sherlock’s lips with the very tip of his tongue. First the bottom, then the top. Tingles raced through Sherlock’s body. He moaned, pitching forward, eagerly responding. John grinned, delighted, and he flicked his tongue against Sherlock’s, making him gasp.

Sherlock wanted them to go back to bed. Rosie was still asleep, downstairs with Mrs. Hudson. There was nothing to distract them. Everything was quiet. The only sounds in the flat were their own harsh breaths interspersed with bitten off moans. Sherlock wanted them to go back to bed and stay there. For the rest of the day. He didn’t know how to convey that idea to John- or how to politely ask.

Besides, chances were John wouldn’t want to go back to bed. He’d want to go downstairs and get his daughter. Bring her upstairs and feed her breakfast. Get their day started. Do something productive. There was shopping to be done, after all. John had just got done telling him that. John wouldn’t want to spend hours with Sherlock, wasting time in bed, naked, making love.

Sherlock sighed, resigned, but he kept kissing John. He loved kissing John. He loved every single infinitesimal thing that dealt with kissing John- from the way he moaned and breathed, to the texture of his lips and tongue against his own. He could smell John’s shampoo and soap and he inhaled as much of it as he could-

“Sherlock…”

He loved the way John said his name as they kissed. That was his favorite part. Well. One of his favorite parts. Sherlock decided that if he had to choose only one favorite part of kissing John, it would be-

“Come back to bed with me.” John suddenly said and Sherlock drew away from their kiss, stunned. He had to have heard John incorrectly.

“Wh-what?”

“I said come back to bed with me.” A dull flush worked its way into John’s cheeks. “I mean. You don’t have to. Obviously. It’s only. I just thought you might want to. We could…I dunno. If you liked what we did last night, I thought we could maybe…you know, before we have to go down and get Rosie.” He shrugged. “But that’s fine. We don’t have to…”

“Yes, please, John. I want…yes. We can…I’d love to do that. Again. With you.”

“You’re sure?” John studied Sherlock closely as if he thought Sherlock were lying. “We really don’t have to. Honestly. You won’t offend me-“

“Please take me back to bed, John.”

* * *

 

Their bed was rumpled. Neither had made an effort to make it up and the duvet was halfway on the floor, the sheets skewed and pulled up from three of the corners. The bedding was also liberally covered in streaks of semen and lube. Sherlock blushed at the evidence of what they’d done last night- how filthy and messy and lovely it’d been.

He caught John watching him. Eyes dark. Desiring.

It suddenly didn’t matter if the sheets were stained.

John steered Sherlock backwards until he was sprawling onto the bed, John eagerly scrambling after him. The sheets were about to get even more stained and that was a wonderful thought.

This time was faster. Quicker. There was more rush and less time for slow exploration, and in next to no time their clothes were gone, thrown to the floor, and John was knelt over Sherlock, kissing him as Sherlock worked slick fingers inside him. John’s body still felt stretched, but the way he shuddered, biting his lip while Sherlock prepared him, was concerning.

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock stopped, fingers buried in John’s arse. “John? Am I…should I…would you like me to stop?”

“No…no. I’m fine. More than fine. Really. I’m just a little sore. That’s all.”

Of course John was sore. Sherlock should’ve realized. They’d engaged in vigorous coitus last night. John would naturally be sore. Sherlock knew…he had experience with…he knew what it was like to feel…

“We can do something else.” He carefully eased his fingers from John’s arse, berating himself. Stupid. He hadn’t stopped to think, selfishly concerned with getting to have sex with John again.

“Sherlock.” John cupped his cheek. “I’m fine-“

“I don’t want it to hurt.” That was all Sherlock could say. He didn’t want to bring any of _that_ up. Again. He knew John would understand.

“I know you don’t. But it’s not going to hurt, love. Really. I’d tell you if it did.” John kissed him again, slipping his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth to try and reclaim the moment. It worked. Somewhat. Sherlock felt a flicker of arousal, before it was drowned out again with worry. “The soreness…it’s not bad, it sort of…well…it sort of gives everything…an edge.”

“An edge?”

“Mmhm. It feels…good. Different. But still good. It makes it feel…more. I don’t know how to describe it, but you’re not going to hurt me. You’d never hurt me, love.”

Sherlock hesitated. He wanted to believe John and what he said, but did he only want to believe him because he was selfish and wanted to have sex with him?

John made the decision for him. He grabbed Sherlock’s hand and steered it behind him, trailing Sherlock’s fingers up the curve of his arse and back where they had been, giving him a wink. “Don’t make me beg for your cock. I will if you want me to though.”

Sherlock huffed, but did as John wanted, slipping his fingers inside again. He used extra lube and took his time preparing him and John, understanding and patient and loving, let him do what he wanted.

But when John finally sank onto Sherlock’s cock, they both groaned, the moment having gone on for too long. They were both hard and trembling with need that was almost impulsive. John raised and lowered himself hesitantly a few times, getting adjusted…before he began moving earnestly, movements building until he was shoving himself down on Sherlock’s cock harder and harder. Sherlock was entranced. He couldn’t look away.

“God, I love when you look at me like that.” John breathed, grinning, and Sherlock was so far gone that he didn’t have time to be worried about how he was looking at John. He pulled at John’s hips, encouraging him, thrusting upward in short, controlled bursts.

“Yes, Sherlock- fuck, yes, love. Please- yes…” John babbled, voice going rather high-pitched, and Sherlock started stroking his cock to the rhythm of their thrusts. John tightened around his cock, body going rigid, and the knowledge that John was nearing orgasm made Sherlock’s own arousal consume him.

He’d never known it could be like this. It all made sense to Sherlock now, why everyone was so obsessed with the whole “sex thing.” He’d never really understood. He’d known that stimulation of one’s genitals felt good and that orgasms were nice…but he hadn’t known it could be like this. That it could feel this good. That he could crave something so much he almost couldn’t see straight.

He whined, hips jumping beyond his control, and finally gave in, planting his feet on the mattress and fucking up into John. John’s mouth fell open in a soundless cry, cock hardening in Sherlock’s hand. It was almost perfect. But…

“Look at me.”

John’s eyes snapped open. He stared down at Sherlock curiously, but Sherlock couldn’t say anymore. He couldn’t ask for what he wanted. It was so silly. Embarrassing.

“Sherlock.”

The sound of his name on John’s lips, the vowels moaned and stressed, sent a fresh surge of heat through his body. He knew John felt it too because his brow suddenly crumpled, movements turning shaky.

“Yes, Sherlock…Sherlock…Sherlock…” Sherlock trembled, mouth open as he panted, working himself inside John as hard and fast as he could. John always knew what he needed. “Sherlock…Oh…Sherlock…Sherlock…Sherlock….”

After that, it was a quick blur of movement and rising pleasure and feeling the contractions of John’s body, Sherlock holding himself back by a thread.

“Yes, Sherlock. Yes, Sherlock…fuck, yes, yes…Sher- ah- ah- Sherl- ah!”

They ended up making a complete mess of the sheets.

Afterwards, Sherlock thought it should probably be disgusting. They were laying in a mess of their own spendings. He couldn’t be arsed to care. Not when he was wrapped around John so tightly, their hearts still racing, bodies thrumming from spectacularly nice orgasms while being told, in lovely whispers, that he was loved. John kissed his shoulder, the only part of Sherlock he could easily reach in their sprawl, and Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat. He settled, ready to take a nap the rest of the morning-

John pinched at his side and Sherlock yelped in outrage.

"John-"

"This doesn't mean you're getting out of going to Tesco with me, Sherlock."

* * *

 

“C’mon.” John urged, tugging at Sherlock’s hand as they made their way to the front of the store to check out. Sherlock couldn’t even remember the rest of their shopping excursion. They seemed to have everything, though, if John were making them leave. “The sooner we get this shopping done, the sooner we can get back to the flat.”

“John-“

“-and back to our bed.”

John was a slutty, shameless minx in public.

Sherlock was glad that his coat was buttoned and held in front of him. His cheeks flushed and John gave him a smacking kiss, in public, where anyone could see.

“Ready to go home, love?”

Home.

Home with John.

“Yes, John. I’m ready.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I won't hold the final chapter ransom, obviously. That's something I've never done and never will...but comments and encouragement will make me feel better and give me a much-needed writing boost. I'll do it without such things, but it does make writing easier.


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